


The True Memoirs Of A Gentleman Of Pleasure

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Drug Use, F/M, First Kiss, Frottage, Historical AU, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Loss of Virginity, Love at First Sight, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Teenlock, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 67,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A great many things have been said about me dear reader, and not all of them very kind, but now I take it upon myself to relate the truth of the matter, so at length the details of my scandalous life may be laid out before you - my own true history. A life written with the same loose liberty as I led it, stripped bare.</p><p>Orphaned and alone young Sherlock Holmes seeks his fortune in London, loses his innocence and finds true love in the most unexpected place, but events conspire to tear them apart and Sherlock must use any means he can to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the novel 'Memoirs of Fanny Hill - A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749) by John Cleland - Real 18th century porn and damn hot!!

 

 

 

A great many things have been said about me, and written too dear reader, and not all of them very kind. But now, I take it upon myself to relate the truth of the matter, so at length the details of my scandalous life may be laid out before you – my own true history.

 

I spare no thought for the sensibilities of others, delicate as they may be – or not, whilst yet in the flower of youth and enjoying the leisure afforded by affluence I look back upon the events of my past with an understanding unusual to those of my unhappy profession, having observed much of the character and manners of our society than is commonly undertaken. I hasten to proceed to the meat of the matter, despising all unnecessary preface, to lay myself bare before you, a life written with the same loose liberty as I led it, ungarnished, stripped bare.

 

My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Sherlock hereafter, born in a small village in Lancashire of parents whom I wholly believed to be true and honest. We were wealthy and lived in great comfort, my father a successful merchant out of Liverpool, but all came undone in my ninth year when an unfortunate affliction ruined us, our fortune gambled away at the card tables and gin houses. My elder brother Mycroft, seven years my senior fought hard to recover our losses to no avail, and being but sixteen himself the task was too onerous to expect success. My father cast him off in shame and anger despite his most honourable of intentions, declaring that he should never darken his door again as long as he should live. The words proved prophetic beyond my wildest imaginings and in the sixth year of his absence both my parents were taken within a month by the small-pox, my father first, his loss hastening the demise of my beloved mama. It did indeed seize me in its turn, but my robust constitution and favourably mild symptoms soon delivered me from immediate danger and back to the fullest of health.

 

However, I was orphaned and alone.

 

My education up to this point had been singularly lacking, the lot of a second son, but I took it upon myself to gain instruction, plundering the library of every available resource. My eager mind devoured this knowledge to such a degree that I considered myself quite well accomplished, acquainted with the sciences, mathematics, music, and some art. But books and cleverness will not assist the destitute of a small country village.

 

My dream therefore was London, the wide sprawling city alive with possibility, my home now empty to me after such tragic loss. My guardian, an old maid and friend to mama was eager to see me go, the strain of raising a curious young boy too much to bear at her advanced years, pressing into my hand the very last of my meagre inheritance – eight guineas and seventeen shillings in silver.

 

Imagine my delight then at the renewal of an old acquaintance, my childhood friend Miss Irene Adler, recently come down to visit with friends and due to return to the city, where she had procured employment. With no-one left to care what should become of me I proposed to go with her to seek my fortune heedless of the warnings that the city had ruined far more adventure-seeker’s than it had ever made or advanced, my young head dizzy with longing for all the fine sights and diversions which she recounted in great detail.

 

‘A lovely young man such as yourself shall do very well’ she said, in open admiration at my appearance.

 

I had grown tall over the summer months, my complexion fair and unblemished still, my body slight in appearance, but strong. But mama’s pride and joy had always been my hair, a cascade of soft ebony waves, framing my narrow blue eyes.

 

‘I can get you a place if you like, in service with a very kind mistress, you’re hands are much too soft for heavy work lovey-dove’.

 

She told me that many a young lady or gentleman had found lasting fortune this way and that by preserving my virtue I might be kept as companion in a fine house with every comfort of which I might desire.

 

Forgive me, but I must confess myself to have been wholly innocent at this time, my brother having left before the first flowerings of my adolescence. Father never spoke of such things and neither had mama, therefore I remained blissfully unaware of Irene’s more unseemly designs upon my person never having had a sweetheart of my own.

 

She proposed to travel with me, and in my eagerness to agree thought nothing of taking upon myself the expense of our journey, procuring us both places on the Chester waggon.

 

For the duration of our journey Irene acted towards me as both mother and protector, although barely of an age herself she vowed to defend me against any unwanted advances from our fellow passengers, who she said would love nothing better than to lay their hands on a young, sweet thing such as myself.

 

I blushed prettily in my confusion, casting nervous glances at the two pious-looking gentlemen seated across from us, in ignorance of the more ‘animal’ aspects of human nature.

 

‘But surely it is I who should protect you’, I protested, much to my companion’s amusement.

 

That a man could desire another man was a thought that had yet to occur.

 

‘Will the work be very hard Irene?, I have little to offer but my mind’ I asked, shielded from the fate that was soon to befall me by my youthful innocence.

 

‘Not very hard my love, good houses will be eager to engage the services of such a pretty, well- mannered young gentleman - Remember Sherlock’, said Irene, ‘your virtue is the key to wealth and happiness, I’ve known some lucky young men to become a ‘gentleman’s companion’, given rooms and an allowance and dressed in the finest linen’s and silks’.

 

‘Forgive me madam’ said the elder of the two men, encroaching upon our conversation, ‘one should not preserve virtue for its own sake in the expectation of earthly reward. That is not the true path’.

 

‘And what would you have us do sir?’, she replied, eyes flashing in defiance, ‘roll on our backs and let the gentlemen make free with us?’

 

They did not venture to converse with us further following this most perplexing outburst, the rest of the journey continuing in silence and intermittent slumber.

 

I dreamt of the city as the wheels of the carriage rattled onward, and all that I hoped to discover there.


	2. Ignorance Is Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds employment at Mrs Turner's gentleman's club, but the good lady is not all she appears to be.

We arrived in London at the first flush of dawn, retiring to an Inn to procure sustenance – freshly baked bread and home-made preserves washed down with bitter small-beer, a humble feast but all that we could afford on my dwindling inheritance. My possessions were scant, everything I owned in the world packed into one battered brown trunk, cutting a lowly figure, dressed as I was in my country attire, built for practicality and durability not fashion, my native origins setting me apart from the other patrons.

 

Irene laughed at my distress, reminding me this was sure to change in due course once I had secured employment in a fine house. And with that she proposed we make our way to the Intelligence Office as soon as was prudent to seek out a place with all haste lest I be left without a bed for the night.

 

This worried me greatly, thinking as I had that Irene would attend to my welfare in the interim, a childish notion of which I am sure the dullest simpleton would have been aware.

 

Her demeanour had already changed toward me, displaying an eagerness to divest herself of any further responsibility, chivvying me along with an air of impatience. The reason for our haste was soon made clear.

 

The Intelligence Office was a heaving throng of London’s poor and desperate as Irene pushed me forward to present myself for what I can only describe as ‘inspection’, prodded and poked as I was like a prize cow at a country fayre.

 

“Well you ‘aint built for heavy work lad, that’s for certain, hands as soft as a girls you ‘ave” said the large, florid woman in charge of the employment ledger, “pretty face though, very easy on the eye, I must say Miss Irene you do know how to pick ‘em”.

 

Irene scowled in annoyance at this unintentional slip, having revealed much more than she wished to my tender ears, her countenance only clearing at the sight of a plump, smiling matron who had lately entered the room.

 

“Come along Sherlock, I do believe we are in luck, that lady there”, she pointed, “is a well-known good mistress called Mrs Turner who is sure to treat you very well if you are to her liking, she is a widow who keeps a fine house with many nieces and nephews to assist her. Do you wish me to enquire on your behalf?”

 

I gave my eager assent, mindful of the urgency with which I must procure shelter. As naïve as I knew myself to be, even I was aware of the mortal danger awaiting a friendless and homeless young person on the streets of London. I had no wish to pass the midnight hours in the company of footpads and murderer’s .

 

We approached, and I waited in a state of apprehension and anxiety while Irene made my case and the good lady looked me over. Providence, it appeared, was on my side, and evidently happy with what she saw she paused in her appraisal to hand Irene a small linen pouch.

 

“Well aren’t you just the sweetest thing my love”, she said, pinching my cheeks between plump fingertips, “fresh from the country and innocent as the day you were born. Take off your hat…oh yes…shake out those curls…oh, you fair take my breath away young sir and lovely manners to boot, you will do very well for my gentlemen. How would you like to come home with me dear? I have lots of young nieces and nephews and I think you should get along very well?”

 

“But what should I be required to do madam?, I have no practical skill, only that which I learned from a book, I can play the violin quite well if I could procure an instrument”.

 

She laughed most heartily, her ample bosom quivering in a most disconcerting manner. “Don’t you worry about that my love, I shall take very good care of you. Some fine new clothes and polished leather boots will fit you out as quite the fine young gentleman”.

 

Oh dear, reader, you must be overcome with mirth at my ignorance, her reference to ‘nieces’ and ‘nephews’ meaning naught to my unsullied mind, foolish child that I was. I fully believed her assertion that her home was a form of gentleman’s club where the men could come to relax and feel free, a fine port-wine and good conversation acting as balm against the vagaries of their day.

 

And what of Irene? Betraying my misplaced trust to deliver me to a life of debauchery and corruption at the hands of a notorious bawd in return for pecuniary advantage?

 

But I move too fast my friend, as all was still unknown to me at this time.

 

Irene bade me farewell, for she was expected back at her position in a milliner’s shop in Covent Garden under the instruction of another good lady by the name of Mrs Hudson. However much I might wish to stay with my only friend this knowledge made it impossible, unsuited as I was for such skilled and delicate labours .

 

I accepted her kisses and good wishes for my health and happiness and promised most fervently to further our renewed acquaintance at the earliest opportunity, my chest tight with suppressed emotion at our parting.

 

“Come now Sherlock”, my new mistress declared, “Don’t be sad my love, when we get you home and settled you shall have a good meal in your belly and a comely new bedfellow”.

 

I picked up my trunk and put on my hat, following the good Mrs Turner to my unwitting doom.


	3. A Tribute To Venus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock moves in to Mrs Turner's house and is placed under the care of his bedfellow Tom.

We travelled in all haste to my new abode, pausing momentarily in St Paul’s Churchyard where my mistress alighted to make a small purchase, a pair of gloves, and from thence onward to where I now know to be a street just off Covent Garden Road. My heart soared. I would be close to my friend after all, and I vowed to inform her at the earliest opportunity of my good fortune, and to lay thanks of course for her part therein.

 

The house itself was fine and well-kept in outward appearance, and I entered with confidence, no lessened by what I discovered inside. The rooms that I saw were handsomely furnished as would befit the home of a gentlewoman, and were such as mama would wholeheartedly approve had she been alive to see them. I fancied myself the luckiest of young men to have found comfort with a most reputable family.

 

My mistress called for the maidservant, a stout and ruddy girl of no more than one and twenty to take my trunk to my new bedchamber already prepared to receive me, playing her part well in ensuring me that I was to be no common domestic drudge but a companion, both to herself and the honourable guests of her house. The exact terms of my employment such as they were, remained as yet unspecified, my mistress assuring me that I would discharge my duties admirably in due course after a little training up in the conversational arts.

 

‘Susan my dear’ she said, ‘Young Sherlock has come to be my new nephew, take his things up, there’s a good girl, he shall share with Tom and a very pretty pair they will make don’t you think?’

 

‘I do Mrs Turner, very handsome indeed’, and to myself she said, with a look of arch amusement, ‘Our mistress has such a lot of nieces and nephews young sir, you are sure to be very happy here’.

 

‘Hold your tongue Susan’ said the lady, taking my arm and leading me through to the parlour beyond, where the sound of gay laughter signified that a scene of much merriment was afoot. Gentlemen’s voices and young ladies too rang out beyond heavy velvet draperies of the deepest emerald hung by rings of burnished copper.

 

A young lady burst forth, her bodice and hair in much disarray and flushed pink about the chest with exertion, exclaiming that ‘she would not ride the St George, and you cannot make me sir, dirty beast that you are’.

 

I confess myself to have been most confused, imagining some jolly parlour game the rules of which I was yet to be taught. But perhaps dear reader, you are an innocent too? I forget that others have not led such a life and therefore I shall charge myself with your timely instruction. She referred to a position of sexual congress whereby the woman is seated atop the man, impaled upon his stiff cock.

 

There, have I shocked you?

 

It was indeed a most illuminating introduction to the household.

 

My mistress for her part looked most affronted on my behalf, bidding the girl repair at once to the receiving room to bring forth my new bedfellow and instructor Tom a particular favourite of the household blessed as he was with a most handsome face and strong lean limbs, resplendent in a fine silk shirt and breeches the colour of the most beautiful cornflower.

 

Why should I notice such things you say? Am I not allowed to admire, to appreciate beauty in those other than myself be they male or female? (My admiration, such as it was, was purely selfish having no wish to share a bedchamber with a more disagreeable fellow).

 

‘Sherlock has come to live with us Tom dear, fresh from the country. Would it please you to have him as your new bedfellow and train him up for the gentlemen?”

 

‘Oh indeed mistress, I should like it very much’ Tom replied pacing in circles around me so that he could take in each and every angle. I blushed under the intensity of his gaze, anxious that I would be found wanting in some way.

 

They discussed my attire, agreeing that the best course of action be to send, at the earliest opportunity for the tailor to have me fitted out in more appropriate garments. I asked how I was to pay for this generous endowment, but my lady laughed gaily, giving every assurance that I needn’t trouble my pretty little mind on that score. They had another plan in mind. I was not to be seen or spoken to by any other member of the household or visitors until such time as they could secure a good price for my virginity (or maidenhead for want of a better word), assured as they were of its existence by virtue of my innocent appearance.

 

That night a hearty supper was provided, attacked by myself with ravenous enthusiasm, my last meal a fleeting memory of bread and jam. I drank of much wine, my cup kept full by the studious attentions of my new kind-hearted family until the arms of sleep sought to drag me down.

 

‘Oh the poor dear’ said Mrs Turner, ‘the excitement of the day has fair worn him out. Take him up to bed Tom and get him all settled…make sure he’s comfortable’.

 

I went willingly, like a lamb to the slaughter you might say if you wish to be unkind. But truly, I was grateful for Tom’s help and companionship and had no cause as yet to construe his attentions with anything other than brotherly affection.

 

He was soon to disabuse me of that notion.

 

We undressed, I hovering in bashful uncertainty in my smallclothes, feet bare against the wooden floor swaying slightly from the drink I had consumed. Tom had his back to me as yet, so I bolted under the thick woollen covers and pulled them up under my chin to supress my shivering limbs and hide my skinny adolescent form. Tom continued unabashed, stripping off every stitch until he stood gloriously naked and unashamed in the half-light.

 

I looked my fill.

 

Tom was a man of at least five and twenty, strong and muscular with a wavy mop of auburn hair, his limbs and chest covered by the same in abundance, and between his legs, oh lord, hung a long thick shaft, which gleamed like ivory the uncapt tip red and angry as it stood stiffly out from a mat of wiry curls. I blushed and squeezed my eyes tight-closed never having seen another man undressed before, not even my father nor my brother although I knew such a lewd display as this was not the same.

 

Tom laughed at my shyness, pulling back the covers to slip inside and ever the one to bestow his affections when such an occasion presented itself he embraced me with great eagerness, a kiss pressed fully against my lips.

 

‘There, and now we are the best of friends are we not?’ he asked fondly, ‘now you kiss me Sherlock so I should know we are truly as brothers’.

 

I dipped forward shyly and pressed a swift chaste kiss against his mouth.

 

‘And once more to seal our bond’.

 

He bent his head over to where I lay pressed back against the pillow, lowering his mouth to mine and pushing between my lips with a hot wet tongue, and to my surprise I returned the embrace kissing back freely with the all the fervour of perfect innocence.

 

‘Have you never kissed a man before?’ Tom said, when finally we broke part.

 

I shook my head.

 

‘Nor any girl? Have you never had a sweetheart?’

 

I bit down on the skin of my lip, worried he must find me very gauche when I answered with a negative, but no, the news pleased him greatly and encouraged, his hands wandered freely over my body pushing up beneath my undershirt with soft touches, squeezes and pressures. You might think this would alarm me, but the novelty of his touch provided more of warmth and comfort than shock. All the while he flattered and praised me as a bribe to my passiveness, conducting my own hands to the hardness of his masculine chest coaxing them to explore the musky down-covered skin and the erect peaks of his nipples.

 

For his part, he continued his licentious course slipping down lower over the smoothness of my abdomen until he could twine his fingertips in the coarse curls which garnished my burgeoning manhood.

 

And I? I lay all tame and passive still, as the coldness of the night thawed from my body with each touch.

 

‘What are you doing Tom?’ I whispered as a warm firm palm wrapped around my cock and began to move, coaxing it to hardness.

 

‘Just stroking you a little, it’ll help you sleep my love’.

 

I did not move. I never thought to throw him off, not once, basking instead in the searing fire that wantoned through my veins and inflamed my young body far beyond the power of modesty, my sighs and moans assuring him of my pleasure at the proceedings. It felt so unlike my own secret fumblings to relieve the distracting ache of my loins, conducted out of necessity more than want.

 

To further test this favourable response he made a bold attempt to insinuate a finger into my tight virgin hole, slick with spittle from his mouth. Had he not already readied me with great care and attention I should have leapt from the bed in great pain at the intrusion to this hot narrow passage. He did not probe to any depth but merely kept it there, the tip barely sheathed, strange but not unduly uncomfortable while I fought back the urge to bear down upon it, robbed of all liberty of thought and reason as the pleasure within me crested and burst forth in spurts of warm viscous seed upon my belly.

 

He smothered my shame with kisses and sweet words, drawing my hand down to his answering hardness to gently curl around it, sliding up and down the length in tandem with his own. He was hot and throbbing beneath my fingertips moving himself with such rapid a friction that my hand was soon clammy with the first of his release, the fur-covered ball-sack slapping against my thigh heavy with its hidden treasure. And in those final passionate throes as his body jerked and his cock splashed hotly on my naked skin, the first sparks were ignited, the first ideas of pollution to my impressionable mind that acquaintance such as this with the worst of our own sex can be as fatal to innocence as any seductions by the other.

 

So what should I have done dear reader?

 

What would you have me do?

 

Run from the room and call out for Mrs Turner to save me from what was given and received most freely?

 

And who are you or I to judge where we as sensual creatures seek to fulfil our base desires?

 

Did we do wrong? I think not, believing as I do that our earthly bodies were designed for pleasure not denial.

 

And so, on that fateful night I laid down my first virgin tribute to the goddess Venus at the hands of another of my sex.

 

It would not be the last.


	4. An Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is brought before the odious Mr Weston.
> 
> * Warning for potential triggers - see tags*

 

 

 

The sun was full in the sky by the time I awoke, drawn from the most pleasant of sleeps by footfall upon the stairs, my mistress and Tom come to wake me from my slumber. I expected censure at my sluggish ways never before having lolled abed so late into the day, but no, Mrs Turner was perfectly content and asked in the kindest manner how I did and was I well rested after the trials of the previous day.

 

‘It gives me great joy’, she said at length, ‘that you be so pleased with young Tom here and he be with you by all accounts’.

 

I cast my eyes down, the memory of our mutual pleasure yet clear in my mind, the stain of which lay still upon my body.

 

‘Such an affectionate little thing he said you are, that will go very well with the gentlemen when you come to it my dear’.

 

I threw back the covers in remembrance I was no guest and exclaimed that if it would please her would get up now and attend to my duties, such as she would have me do and to beg her pardon again for my tardiness and neglect. The good lady laughed at my eagerness, bidding me calm myself, declaring that the gentlemen would be fair thrilled with a ‘bud of beauty’ such as I and that they would admire me vastly for my looks and disposition.

 

I am shamed to admit that I basked a little in the glow of her compliments having frequently as a child been told of the oddness of my countenance and the awkwardness of my demeanour. That I should now be praised for what I had perceived as faults appealed to my youthful vanity.

 

The reason for her softening praise soon became clear. Tom was to help me dress, ‘tricking me out for the market’ if you will, for a gentleman had come that very day eager to make my acquaintance, a very fine gentleman I was told before whom my charms were to pass for his consideration. In truth, he had insisted on a previous sight of this good house to determine if such a place as this could be diligent in the keeping of a valuable commodity such as I, and that satisfied, I was to be brought before him with all haste lest another become aware of my existence.

 

Two bundles of linen were set on the bed, all the necessary accoutrements for rigging me out as a fine young gentleman, a shirt and breeches of the finest ivory linen and a waistcoat in azure with polished silver buttons. There were new white stockings to replace my own and black leather shoes with buckles. That the clothes were not new, excepting the stockings, was of no import never having dressed in such finery since the days before my father gambled and drank away our family fortune.

 

Tom petted and praised, stoking the fire of my vanity as I gazed enraptured at the image in the mirror before me, what a proud bearing I had, such luscious curls and dazzling eyes that the gentleman was sure to be thrilled with me. They were empty words, I now know, chosen with artful design to coddle and flatter, decking the victim out for sacrifice, as in truth the ensemble leant a tawdry air to my unblemished innocence rather than enhanced it and even my childish joy could not conceal a faint air of discomfort.

 

Unadorned I looked well enough, tall for my age with long, lean limbs a little angular and awkward still but strong and gently muscled. My face I thought too long with eyes too high-set and narrow that appeared to alter from the storm-grey of a wind tossed ocean to the blue of a summer sky in accordance with my mood. That all this should be pleasing to look upon was a notion of great strangeness and curiosity to me, but not unwelcome and it would be true to say that such singular blessings as I possess have proved the architect of great pleasure and fortune rendering any affectation of modesty disingenuous.

 

When prepared to Tom’s satisfaction he bade me come with him to the parlour where my mistress waited to present me to the gentleman. And oh, reader, what a rare sight awaited me there! Mr Weston as he was introduced to me was a monstrous creature indeed, tall and wide with a large florid face and bulbous red nose heavily veined from an affinity with the gin bottle, symptoms I recognised from observation of my own late father’s habits. He however, held himself with such an air of entitlement blind to his own deformities. But minding my manners and hiding my aversion I bobbed a curt bow to him.

 

‘Come now young sir don’t be shy’, he said, ‘I am sure we can do better than that’ and stepping forward this most odious of creatures clutched my face between clammy palms and pressed his mouth to mine such as left no question as to his salacious designs upon my person. A thick hideous tongue sought entrance to my mouth, and his hot stinking breath overwhelmed my senses enough to make me retch in distress, unable as I was to pull away.

 

He let me go with an air of triumph.

 

‘Very nice, very pretty indeed, yes, yes’ he muttered, as much to himself as to anyone standing before him, ogling my body with lust-filled eyes, and all the while Mrs Turner looked on with an air of satisfaction, sure that she was soon to make good on her investment.

 

‘Sherlock here is fresh from the country Mr Weston sir, as pretty as a picture I’m sure you agree and innocent as the day he was born, with a hole as tight as the lock on the crown jewels that’s a guaranteed solid gold certainty….Tom’ she inclined her head towards the door, bidding him take me from the parlour to the back room while she talked terms with this ghastly vision, making clear to me in that moment that I was not the first to be presented to him in this way.

 

I heard all, separated only by velvet drapes as we were, my mistress enquiring as to whether he might like to make an appointment for a further ‘conversation’ with me that very afternoon.

 

‘No’, he said, it must be now, this very hour’

 

‘I beg you to reconsider sir, the lad is not groomed up to it yet’

 

‘I will take my chances madam, all will be well’

 

‘I won’t take less than a hundred and fifty guineas sir’

 

‘I’ll give you one hundred and not a penny more’

 

‘Let us say fifty for the attempt the rest to follow upon full gratification, how does that suit?’

 

‘Very well madam, done, you drive a hard bargain’

 

‘Not for a treasure such as this’.

 

And with the conclusion of this unholiest of contracts, my fate was sealed.

 

Tom, for his part made a final appeal for clemency, but I knew in my heart that any delay only served as stay of execution at this point so determined was my mistress to take advantage of my currency.

 

‘I beg of you ma’am the boy is yet untamed, he has scarce been here more than a day. Please press upon the gentleman that he must go gently or this is sure to end in tears’.

 

To myself, he made light as did my mistress, speaking in praise of this worthy cousin and extoling the virtues of his wealth and rank and that if I be a good boy and please him he could make my fortune bestowing many gifts and favours should I play my part to his satisfaction. But nothing could be more abhorrent to me and I could not hide my aversion from their keen eyes, giving them little hope that the matter would be concluded with success.

 

Lust breeds impatience and this vile suitor was not to be denied his prize and upon summoning me once more to the parlour where the tea things had been duly laid out, I was left alone to entertain him.

 

He sat on the chaise like a large squat toad and I hovered in uncertainty, fussing about the tea things to delay the moment when I must go sit alongside him, but the violence of his ardour had been misjudged and I found myself gripped in a tight embrace as he rose, flinging his arms about my waist to roughly draw me to him. His size gave him the advantage of me and we sat back heavily upon the chaise whereby I was subjected to a barrage of pestilential kisses upon my face and neck which in my surprise I endured, quite passive and unresisting, my wits momentarily overcome by the force of the attack. Emboldened, his wandering hands soon sought to divest me of my waistcoat and shirt, pressed back as I now was with his full weight atop me, pawing at my naked chest.

 

‘Stop sir, please stop I beg of you’ I cried finding my voice again, and he gave pause, but only to throw off his own waistcoat and unbutton the front of his breeches, making a determined attempt to force his knee between my thighs. But I held fast, pressing my legs together in denial of access as he panted and cursed at me to ‘open your legs you damned little slut’. But I would not, and he grunted and rutted against my leg like a randy dog collapsing soon after, head buried beneath my armpit, lain unnaturally still.

 

‘Sir’ I called prodding at his prone form as a growing wetness soaked into my breeches, ‘are you well sir?’

 

‘Well?’ he roared rearing up revived, ‘you little cocktease that you are, making a man shoot off in his breeches like that by acting all shy and demure. I know your sort, I’ll bet you serviced half the village with your sloppy little hole and thought you could do the same here and make a living on your back and on your knees. You acted your part well with your display of false modesty, but I’ll be damned if the old bitch will get a penny’.

 

As I was yet to discover, Mr Weston was famed for his premature explosions having yet to get his cock inside a single orifice and more often than not, unable to get it up at all. This only served to increase his frustration and anger throwing the blame at the object of his unwanted affections for the failed attempt, at times acting violently against them in anger at his impotence.

 

So you see my dears, it could have gone so much worse for me than his sticky effusions upon my thigh.

 

And I must admit, my heart was lightened at the thought that this would bring an end to his attentions, sure that they must not be renewed again in my direction.

 

My mistress declared herself not displeased only worried for my welfare when they discovered me alone in the parlour with my clothes in disarray, vowing that Mr Weston would never be permitted upon the premises again for treating me so roughly and rudely.

 

‘But he didn’t hurt you now did he dear? Not to speak of anyway’ she said, filling a cup with wine to ‘calm my nerves’ and bidding Tom to take me abed now the beast had departed taking with him her fifty promised guineas.

 

Why did I not leave you say? As surely the true nature of my gilded cage had now been laid before me as was the intentions of my supposed guardian? I can think of no reason other than that I remained a penniless orphan, new to London and with nowhere else to go.

 

Besides, you must not confuse my _aversion_ to this man with a lack of _inclination_ for the act itself for the two are very different things. Had the gentleman been so pleasing in looks and manners as my bedfellow Tom who knows if I would have succumbed to temptation and cast off the final remnants of modesty and decorum, if I had not already done so to your eyes…..

‘Come now Sherlock’ Tom whispered as he stripped me bare that night, pressing soft kisses against my naked skin, gentle and kind, ‘let us see if we cannot bring off together this time’.


	5. A Light In The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chance encounters will change the course of Sherlock's life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Some of the dialogue has been adapted from the Andrew Davies screenplay from the 2007 mini-series starring Rebecca North and Hugo Speer*

 

 

 

The true nature of the household having been revealed to me, and finding me not averse to this loose morality but conformable instead, my mistress sought to capitalise on what she saw as a tractable temper by releasing her flock to ensure resignation to my fate. Her design was to show the happiness of that little household and the life of great pleasure to be had therein. But I must confess even then, the wants and desires awoken in me by my most attentive and gentle bedfellow had caused the last of my modesty to melt away like dew in the summer sun, and besides, my fear of being cast out had made such a vice of necessity as to render refusal unconscionable and even if my cage door had been opened would have stayed.

 

However, I welcomed their attentions, the petting and cajoling like twittering birds designed to show the fair side only, the gaudy finery and gaiety of a brightly painted illusion which masked the unseemly nature of their daily lives. But despite my recognition of the façade, it was also truth that the girls were happy, well-fed and clothed with a life infinitely better than that of the common street whore.

 

With the benefit of hindsight you can say one always knows better, but for now I was entranced, allowed finally to join them in the receiving room on the understanding that I was not for any man to lay hands on, but to be seen and desired the thought remaining that they may as yet be amenable when I be made freely available to them. Mrs Turner, ever resourceful and keen to have me set to work had secured the consideration of another fine gentleman, a Lord Bainbridge from Bath who had laid down the interim sum of sixty guineas, a generous offer for the perusal of her valued trinket, as yet untouched, the promise to be made good a fortnight hence when he should return to town. Time enough then to train me in the indelicate arts, my knowledge of which was still lacking in many important respects despite the best efforts of the young ladies to further corrupt my innocence with bawdy tales of their engagements with men, much of which I was yet to observe.

 

The receiving room was large and sumptuous with an abundance of velvet covered chaise and a large table of the finest walnut taking the central place, around which high-backed chairs were stood. Here, lain out for the enjoyment of the gentlemen and girls alike was a bountiful array of the finest fruits, breads, cheeses and cold-cuts, enough to sate the need for sustenance in the most ravenous of persons, the drink flowing freely with good wine and tankards of ale in abundance lending much to the atmosphere of decadence.

 

The gentlemen, or their ‘sweethearts’ as the girls were won’t to call them (in mockery I knew), were commonly men of means their fortunes made in business, or men of letters from high places such as government and the law, a sweet, sweet irony you will agree considering the nature of that most disreputable of establishments. They came for the gratification of those base needs the relief of which their wives or significant others could not or would not partake of. The sons came too, encouraged by the fathers to educate themselves in the carnal arts before committing themselves to a future with wife and child, or simply to indulge in such indecent perversions as would be frowned upon in more polite society, (of which I shall come to later). The men took great liberties to my mind, cavorting about the room with the girls half- dressed around them, touching and groping what naked flesh they could find blind to the spectacle of debauchery as they suckled at breasts like babies at a mother’s tit.

 

Of Tom I saw little and sometimes not at all, as his services were much in demand for the gentlemen who shared such proclivities, those who found no pleasure in the soft, silken flesh of a woman, stirring only at the touch of a hard unyielding body and a long thick cock, of which I confess provoked the pulse of heated blood to course through my own veins at the thought. That I would join him soon enough I could not contemplate as yet.

 

One particular gentleman present at these merry gatherings perplexed me greatly. He never came in company but yet preferred to sit in the receiving room amongst the throng sipping wine and watching all with bright eyes that spoke of a keen intellect. He watched me too, tipping his cup in acknowledgement but mindful of the boundaries that had been set regarding my availability for the purposes of entertainment, until one evening he approached and sat at my side.

 

‘Don’t be afraid lad, you have nothing to fear from me’ he said softly as instinct caused my body to betray the uncertainty I felt even as I replied, ‘You mistake me, I am not afraid sir’.

 

‘Indeed’, he laughed, ‘you play the innocent very well’

 

‘I am an innocent sir’, I protested most vociferously, yet to take that final fateful step.

 

‘Well’, he said, ‘as innocent as makes no difference then, but I wonder, do you not understand what a wicked place you have come to and what will happen if you stay here?’

 

‘Mrs Turner had been very kind sir’ I said, ‘and this wickedness you speak of? I see none of it here’

 

‘Your lies are admirable and your loyalty misplaced, but tell me, you must know that innocence is but a fleeting thing and in a place such as this has a price upon it, there will be others, and every virgin will come to it sooner or later’.

 

‘And when I come to it sir, will you take your turn?’ I arched my brow in defiance.

 

‘Oh sweet boy, you almost break my heart, but it is fortunate that I have no interest in breaking yours. This innocence you speak of is fast approaching its end that much is certain, but it will not be at my hands’.

 

‘And should I be glad at that sir?’

 

‘You should’, he smiled, ‘I much prefer a man who has experienced a little more of life’s bitter lessons and you have much yet to learn….but perhaps we might meet again someday and until then I shall drink to your continued happiness and good health, I bid you good-day young sir’.

 

And with that my mysterious admirer rose taking up his seat at table again with his face turned away from my curious gaze. I knew not what to make of this odd exchange.

 

My fair companions however, some of whom had observed much of our little conversation came over in a bluster of excitement on his departure.

 

‘Ooh Sherlock you have made a conquest there’ exclaimed Susan, as she adjusted the bodice of her dress and attempted to tame the wild tangle of her curls with only her fingertips. She sat heavily on the seat beside me and hooked her arm through mine.

 

‘I assure you I have done no such thing’ I replied, pulling away slightly from her, ‘I do not possess what he requires’.

 

‘Silly you’ she laughed, ‘he likes to sit on both sides of the fence does that one although he is very particular. You should think yourself lucky to be chosen by him, I heard tell he is monstrously rich’.

 

‘But I do not like him, the way he addresses me as if he knows what is in my mind, there is something in his air which troubles me, like I have seen him before somewhere’.

 

‘I doubt it my love, no-one knows his name, goes by Mr V and even Mrs Turner don’t know the truth and with the money he spends here she’s wise enough not to ask. Tom might know something more, he’s been with him a few times, and he knows what he’s about with the old twig and berries by all accounts’

 

I could not help but blush a little still, my sole encounters to this date happening under the covers, if you will and beyond the first night when Tom had stripped in front of me I had not laid eyes on another man’s cock.

 

‘Have you never seen it done before Sherlock? What has that Tom been doing the useless arse, me and the girls could have shown you a thing two by now, we was fair jealous when Mrs Turner put you in with him, I know’, she moved in close and whispered in my ear, ‘How would you like to see Mrs Turner with her sweetheart?’

 

The idea, while being truly abhorrent piqued my curiosity to the extent that I found myself rising to follow her regardless. That Mrs Turner herself should entertain paramours was an incidence that in my naivety I had failed to consider.

 

We crept most carefully to the door of her bedchamber and settled in silence behind two sash doors the glass of which was obscured by yellow damask curtains, drawn closed. The merest crack remained in the middle revealing the full aspect of the room to any watchful eye standing without while allowing the watcher to remain hidden from view, or so I fervently hoped. Within, the main event had yet to take place.

 

Her fat clumsy figure flopped down against the edge of the bed, heavy with drink and laughing uproariously at some shared joke with her suitor, although there was little I could find to laugh at here, with a full frontal view of her singular charms on open display. The man, a soldier it would seem sat by her, hands already thrust into the depths of her bodice to disengage those bountiful mountainous breasts from the confines of her stays where once free from their shackles they sagged down low almost to the naval and swinging pendulously. Even in my limited experience of the female form I could find no beauty in the sight before me, but her paramour seemed most content with the treasure he had uncovered as he pawed and toyed with those flagging orbs, laying her back against the bed and hoisting her petticoats up to her blushing cheeks flushed from brandy not from modesty,( that particular horse having been kicked in the face countless years ago in the days of her now distant youth).

 

Her splayed thighs hung down, laying open to my view the greasy landscape of her womanhood, a red gaping slit overhung with a thick bush of grizzled hair offered up like a beggar’s purse.

 

‘He’s not likely to miss a mark such as that now is he?’ whispered Susan beside me, drawing my attention away from this fright to the form of her most gallant stallion, now unbuttoned and standing stiff and erect before her. He bent down, spreading the lips that concealed her entrance and without preamble thrust his great machine inside her mighty orifice with great ease and began to move, hips pumping with a rapid friction, the bed protesting to the accompaniment of their sighs and moans.

 

‘Doesn’t it make you feel all warm Sherlock?’

 

I baulked at Susan’s voice, lost as I had been in perusal of the sight before me, but in this I was sure it had failed to rouse in me the slightest desire to reciprocate in kind, my blood cold and my cock hanging limp and unmoved between my thighs. She seemed most disappointed with my lack of response to her lesson, as I learned later the object of which had been to entice me into her bed. The ladies of the house it seemed had wagered on my being undecided which way my interests were inclined, but this could leave no doubt in my mind or hers, that I had no desire to lay with a woman.

 

‘Never mind love’, she said, as the soldier grunted like a wild boar, finally reaching his completion, ‘maybe if we’ve got time we could…’

 

‘You could do what exactly Susan Evans?’, Tom’s voice sounded in a hoarse whisper behind us making me start with the guilt of our discovery, ‘there will be hell to pay if your mistress finds you here’

 

‘It was only for the lad’s education Tom’, she protested to no avail.

 

‘No, I think it was more for your own amusement you hussy, go make yourself presentable and get down to the parlour, there are a large party of young gentlemen come down for the evening and there is much work to be done’.

 

‘Am I to go to?’ I asked, unsure how much blame for our voyeurism was levelled in my direction, but eager to prove myself willing to come to the aid of the household if need be, in atonement.

 

‘I think not Sherlock, they shall all be drunk as weasels most like, with eyes only for the ladies of the house, besides you forget Lord Bainbridge calls on you soon does he not?’

 

I had not forgotten, just pushed the knowledge to the very back of my mind amongst the dust and cobwebs of my subconscious. Any thought that this could go well for me was overlaid with a thick sense of dread after the horrors of my previous encounter. I needed Tom to show me what was required, but the bounty on my head made the practical experience impossible, I was expected to endure and to learn the necessary only from bitter experience, the words of Mr V thrown back to me as prophecy.

 

‘But what if I don’t like him Tom?’ I couldn’t help but say.

 

‘Oh Sherlock, I think you had better like this one or our mistress might not be so tolerant this time’, he sighed.

 

He was only giving voice to what I had long suspected, that my continued residence was dependant on compliance, a thought weighing heavily upon me as he led me down the stairs. We were to go to the kitchen for luncheon and then Tom was to help the girls keep control of the rowdy young gentlemen, to see that none overstepped their bounds (from what I could gather, trying to sample what they had not paid for). I ate sparingly, as Tom frowned at my lack of appetite, a little cheese and bread and a small cup of wine being all I could stomach as an image of the soldier rendered grotesque by the head of the despicable Weston forced his fat dripping cock into my mouth. I retched, the acid tang of bile and wine crawling back up my throat. I laid the half-finished bread back down upon my plate.

 

Tom laid a hand on my shoulder, warm and grounding knowing what was on my mind, ‘All will be well and when all’s said and done I will be here lad so don’t fret yourself over some mouldy old bastard who has to pay for beauty such as yours’.

 

The sounds of activity had greatly increased by this time heralding the arrival of the band of young marauder’s, a signal to Tom that our meal was come to an end and that I should make haste to my room while he assisted with the gathering. I gave up any further attempts at my meal as a lost cause and we made our way back down along the hall to part ways at the foot of the stairs, but were brought to an abrupt halt when the door of the receiving room burst open spilling out the sounds of joyous laughter and song. And from this scene of merriment burst two fine young gentleman, barely older than myself and as Tom had predicted, well pickled in alcohol with shirt collars untied and several waistcoat buttons popped mindless of decorum.

 

They were a wonder to behold and I longed to join them, turning my beseeching eyes on Tom, my former downcast spirits now fully revived.

 

‘Sir, allow me to present myself’ said the first young man, staring clean past my protector to lock eyes with mine, leaving no room for question as to who he addressed.

 

‘You are out of your way sir’, Tom interceded, ‘please take your friend back’, he nodded to the other lad.

 

‘But I wish to make the acquaintance of this young man’

 

‘You are mistaken sir, he is not for you, he is promised to another ‘

 

‘Please, if we could just sit for a while, talk, just talking that is all I seek sir’

 

‘Indeed sir, no’ Tom said, pushing at my back to chivvy me up the stairs while my would-be friend? suitor? lover? stood forlornly in the hallway fending of the attempts of his fellow to coax him back amongst the fray for want of one last longing look.

 

‘A name, just tell me your name, that is all that I want’ he called, ever determined to satisfy what was more than mere curiosity.

 

‘Sherlock’ I replied before Tom could bundle me around the landing out of sight of those most vivid blue eyes which had awoken a fire in my belly at just one glance.

 

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance Sherlock,' he bowed to me,  'My name is John’.


	6. The Gilded Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a decision that will alter the course of his destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Some dialogue is adapted from the Andrew Davies screenplay starring Rebecca North and Hugo Speer*

 

 

That fire once ignited continued to burn unchecked throughout the night, those flashing blue eyes that had so enthralled me now fixed, unmoving in my consciousness. I was restless, drifting between sleep and an agitated wakefulness, heartsick at the thought I might never see him again and desperate to comprehend why this should matter to me quite so much.

 

John was a stranger, but something deep inside spoke that he was not.

 

At the first light of dawn I gave up, and resigning myself to the fact that sleep would elude me this night I left the comfort of my soft warm bed slipping from Tom’s sleepy embrace as he lay, arm draped across my waist and legs twined, breathing softly. He stirred only a little, rolling onto his back and away from me, aiding my retreat. I had no thought in my head, padding down the staircase on silent feet but to take the air, a luxury denied to me for much of the day when the way to the garden was barred, leading off the back parlour as it did and therefore inaccessible during entertaining hours.

 

I opened the door and entered the silent room, a frozen tableau of the debauched scene from the night before greeted me, having yet to be cleared for the coming day. My eyes adjusted to the dim light, picking out the outline of the outer door and I made my way across, stepping carefully around the debris. Two armchairs sat in front of the hearth, large and squat, framing the last of the dying embers in the grate, and there, in one, my eyes discerned a figure stretched out, legs laid one upon the other quite asleep, abandoned no doubt by his companions as he drank himself into an insensible state. It had happened before, and my mistress was want to leave them be as courtesy, unwilling to throw them on the mercies of the street in such a condition, but with no beds to spare they would rest where they fell and be glad of it.

 

I went on carefully with no wish to rouse the sleeper until lo!, who should it be but the object of my most unspoken desire, the young gent who had wished most ardently to talk with me and given a name to my instant passions – John.

 

This meeting I will relate in the fullest possible terms, etched as it is into my consciousness, every look, every word, every sigh the most exquisite poetry of the senses.

 

Imagine reader if you will a strapping young man between eighteen and nineteen years with a tousled mass of dusky blond hair shading a face on which the full bloom of youth was painted in rose and gold, untouched by his evenings excess. Beautifully bordered lids were closed in sleep, concealing the azure blue which I knew to be present there, framed by the longest thickest lashes and two perfect arched brows to grace the whole, and lips I could scarce tear my eyes from swollen into a luscious pout as if a bee had lately stung them. I stepped forward and knelt down beside the chair. My eyes traced the smooth white skin of his neck exposed to the air by a shirt collar, unbuttoned, down the steady rise and fall of his chest relaxed in sleep to a hand that rested along the outer edge of his sturdy thigh. I know not why I did it, but my hand reached forward unbidden and gently raised his own to my lips. I kissed that sweet palm, laying it against my cheek with a sigh as I breathed in the warm masculine scent of him, jumping back and falling on my arse on the floor as he stirred, blinking in confusion in the muted dawn light. I blushed as he focused his bleary gaze upon me, suddenly aware of my state of undress, half-naked in undershirt and drawers and shamed at being caught with my hands upon him without his express consent.

 

‘Forgive me sir, I only meant to say how cold it is here with the fire gone dead and that you should button up your shirt for fear of a chill’, I stammered, finding my feet again and dropping to my knees before him.

He smiled at the sight of me, submissive, and with eyes still heavy with sleep beckoned me forward and brought his hand up to stroke gently with his thumb along the bony prominence of my cheek.

 

‘Last night I dreamt of you,’ he said softly, ‘but you are real…tell me, do I sleep still?’

 

‘You do not sir’ I said as my eyelids fluttered closed, lost in the warmth of his touch trying not to reveal the violence of my affections for fear they would not be returned.

 

‘Oh please, do not address me that way, it is John, John Watson, and you I remember are Sherlock are you not?’ I nodded mutely as every word that dropped from his lips sent a spark of desire to my heart and raised in me that most dangerous and destructive of emotions – hope.

 

He told me how his companions had abandoned him when on seeing me in the hallway he had declared there and then to them that he would have no other, and being as he was in no condition to enjoy the pleasures of one of the ladies of the house he had retired to the comfort of a warm chair and drank port until he passed out. But now he said, imagine his joy on waking to see the one whom had made so much more than an ordinary impression upon him here at his knee and looking so lovely?

 

‘Will you kiss me Sherlock?’ he asked, eyes darkened with want.

 

My breath caught in my chest and I hesitated, the pause sending clouds of doubt racing across his brow, but it was not lack of inclination which held me back, but my own inexperience. I did not know how to please a man as yet bar my bed-time fumblings with Tom and this boy, for all his tender years I assumed to have indulged in the pleasures of the flesh many times before. But my desire to feel his lips on mine pushed away the last remnants of my virgin shyness.

 

‘Gladly sir’ I said at last.

 

Surging forward he caught my mouth in a warm, firm press and pulled me to him. I stumbled a little, off balance, and clutched him around the waist to steady myself and stop from falling into him, held between his spread thighs. His shirt had come untucked from his breeches in the night and my palms made contact with the soft warm skin of his abdomen, fingers brushing against soft downy hair which would surely grow coarser the lower it went. I dared to try and slid my thumb beyond the waistband, where dipping down I stroked back and forth in a soft teasing rhythm, hearing each hitch of breath and feeling his muscles tighten in response. John cupped my head gently and tilted his own to meet my mouth again on a more pleasing angle and I relished the delicate push and slide of his lips against mine, plush and warm .

 

So this is how it is to be kissed by a lover, I thought.

 

‘And now’, he said, brow pressed to my own, ‘if you will favour me with your company I will make it worth your while, come to bed with me Sherlock and let us make up for lost time’.

 

My heart sank at such a cruel blow as this. I must refuse his advances, of that I was certain, Mrs Turner would never be disposed to go back on her bargain with the esteemed Lord to satisfy the lustful desires of a stripling boy and a novice whore. For that was how he saw me, as one of the house there to satisfy his needs. I did not think the less of him, for in which other way was he to see me?

 

‘I am sorry sir I cannot, you must have forgotten our exchange last night, I am promised to a Lord who will pay Mrs Turner a great deal of money to take my virginity’

 

‘You mean? Oh Sherlock, please, you must forgive my forwardness I mistook you for one of the house’

 

‘I am sir, or will be soon, my virtue gives me a value but when that has passed I will have to go with any man who wants me’

 

‘And is that what you want? I do not mean to presume, but wouldn’t you rather have one man to love and protect you and who would not suffer you to be had by anyone else?’

 

‘Please sir do not be so cruel as to fill my mind with the temptation of a life which I cannot have’

 

‘But you can Sherlock, if I was that man would you want it then?’

 

I closed my eyes and in bowing my head could feel the first prick of hot, traitorous tears behind the lids, the breath shuddered from my chest as I fought against the deep sense of hopelessness that I would ever find another path than the one fate had set my feet upon.

 

‘Your body is yours and not Mrs Turner’s to bargain with, you must know that such an unholy contract would never stand up in a court of law? So please Sherlock I ask you again, will you leave this place and come away with me?’

 

It was madness, but a madness that had seized us both so it seemed, that I could even consider fleeing with a near- stranger was as jumping from the frying pan into the flame. But how did it differ from the circumstances that had so lately led me to this very door? Mrs Tuner had been a stranger too, less obviously dangerous in her female form, but the nature of her business had surely revealed her as more so, and it would not end but with my utter degradation. His words had stirred the reckless, restless spirit within me, the one that had caused my mother such despair and my father to beat me when he could catch hold, which wasn’t often and Mycroft, dear lost brother had laughed at my untamed ways. In my grief I had forgotten myself and let others less worthy try to mould my future, this decision I would take on my own terms . The fire had not gone I understood that now, it had only been waiting for this one wondrous person to set it ablaze once more.

 

‘I know nothing of you’ I raised my head to look at him, and saw an answering wetness reflected there and felt the pull of his fingertips where they tangled in my sleep-tossed hair. I raised a hand to his face and traced the delicate bow of his lips with a trembling fingertip, and with that I was lost.

 

‘And I likewise, but the moment I saw your face I knew that no other would do for me, and now, seeing you here, touching you, kissing you, I know all I need to know, so one final time I ask of you Sherlock, will you come away with me and be mine and mine alone?.’

 

‘Yes’

 

So what do you think of that? Was I a fool to trust this boy so completely with barely any former acquaintance? After all he could have been a blaggard, using kind words to tempt my naïve young heart and bring about my ruin thereafter. But no, I think not, we all know he was as much a blundering innocent as I myself was…. and besides he was _so very_ handsome how could I possibly say no?

 

And with the twining of our destinies came hard cold reality.

 

John bid me make haste, we must go now before the house finally woke and we were discovered, ‘for if I leave this place without you now I fear you will be lost to me forever’. So I kissed him once swiftly and rose, leaving him to catch up the discarded remnants of his clothes as I made my way as silently as before to the bedroom, pulling on breeches and shirt, stockings and shoes trying desperately to avoid every squeak of floorboard and rustle of material and all the while keeping one ear cocked for signs of life. My possessions were few, just the battered trunk I had arrived with and the small leather purse with the remainder of my inheritance, hidden by Tom on my arrival lest Mrs Turner claim this also as her due. The board beneath the bed lifted with ease and I drew it out with a sigh and looking up, my heart leapt in my chest as I saw Tom’s eyes, open and fixed upon me. I froze.

 

‘Don’t stop’ he said, in a voice faltering with emotion, ‘Go, don’t think, don’t look back, I never saw you leave and I hope never to see you again though it breaks my heart to say it….and Sherlock…. He is a sweet one my love…. I wish you every happiness’.

 

I did cry this time, twin tracks of hot salty liquid coursing down my face as I ran, blurred and blind down the stairs and into the passageway. I heard shouts at my back as I burst through the door, shrieks and screams of rage and frustration at the flight of the bird from its gilded cage. But I was much too fast, giddy on adrenaline and fear but oh so filled with joyful exuberance as I pounded across the cobbled street and leapt up into the carriage that I knew stood waiting for me.

 

This life was over now and a new one was yet to begin….


	7. The Bird Takes Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erm, basically the 18th century equivalent of getting off in the back of a taxi cab.

 

 

 

I settled back against the cool worn leather of the carriage seat and watched, still breathless from my exertion as John placed my trunk upon the rack above our heads so we would have the whole seat to ourselves. The muscles in his arms flexed as he hefted the weight and I though with a blush of those same limbs circled around my body as he had held me tightly not an hour before.

 

Did I have permission now? Should I avert my gaze and seek to conceal the deep longing to feel his touch again?

 

I must confess that I did not fully understand what was to be the nature of our arrangement, if that be the appropriate term. What was I to be to him, a friend (perhaps not given what had lately passed between us), a lover then, or a convenient bed-mate? This last I dismissed as the cruel trick of a knave which I was sure that John could never be, but still whatever our relationship was to be in our eyes I was not naïve enough to believe that the society at large would approve, the risks being well established in that respect.

 

I recalled my father’s derisive condemnation over the breakfast table, raising his head from behind the broadsheet to broadcast to the room that yet another filthy sodomite had been brought before the courts and sentenced to imprisonment. ‘And good riddance to them’ he would snort, turning the page with an angry snap. Mother would always excuse herself and leave the room. I believe now that she knew of Mycroft’s preference and feared for his safety within the house if he was ever found out and although she did not doubt the loyalty of our own family staff there were many in the village and visitors to the house who may have been more loose-tongued.

 

My own knowledge came from a lazy summer evening by the pond at the borders of my father’s land. I lay, hidden in the long grass at the edges with the express intent of avoiding a bath which many a small boy was want to do. The air was thick with midges in the clammy air and there hadn’t been a breath of wind for days, the sign of an imminent thunderstorm. I remember quite clearly the sensation of my white shirt clinging hotly to sweaty skin and hair that stood out from my head in a fuzzy halo of curls from the humid atmosphere. I was lain on my stomach, head resting on folded hands beneath my chin, idly swinging my legs up and down, crossed at the ankle as I contemplated the progress of an earthworm retreating back down into the damp earth from whence I had extracted it. My attention was arrested at the sound of a rumble of laughter from a most familiar source, so I forgot my wriggling companion, and remembering what curiosity did to the cat I lowered my legs and settled silently into the grass, turning my head to face the direction from whence the sound had come. It was the butcher’s boy a strapping strong lad, six foot tall, come as was his habit on a Friday evening to bring a fresh shoulder of lamb to cook. He would always stay a while, to sup ale and share news from the village with the kitchen staff, but this, this was far beyond the hour at which he should depart. Two pairs of feet drew close, and I could tell from the direction of their steps where they would be going: the shade of the willow tree, the long flowing tendrils best served to conceal those who wished to stay hidden from prying eyes. I crawled on my belly, using elbows to propel me forward, and felt the damp edges of the mossy ground near the edges of the water soak through into my clothes. It would mean a most vigorous scolding from mother for the ruin of good linen, but I cared not, the beat of my heart pounding in my ears as I inched closer. The light was fading fast, and shapes which had been distinct not an hour before were as but murky grey outlines which I could barely make out. Still, I squinted against the gloom, and jumped a little at the tickle of a water beetle as it ran across my flattened hand, so intent had I been on my silent observations, and there, between the trailing fronds I saw, pressed up against the twisted trunk my brother, with his face mashed full onto the other lads’, groping at his arse over his breeches. They did not talk or laugh any more, just rocked up against each other in short sharp jerks, grunting and panting from some unknown exertion (for how could they be so breathless when neither had been running).

 

Forgive my ignorance, I was but eight years old and did not understand what I had observed, but I felt on instinct that such a liaison was not for the eyes or ears of others. I wondered now with a pang if this had been a factor in my father’s dismissal. Had it been more than his anger at Mycroft for his attempt to correct his on failure that had caused my brother’s exile?

 

But my father was no longer here and therefore I had no reason to fear his censure regarding that which he would surely condemn likewise, as my filthy unnatural perversion.

 

John sat by me and smiled, reaching out to place his warm, soft palm over the back of my hand where it lay loosely atop my thigh. He slid his fingers into the spaces between my own and squeezing, locked them together. It was a gesture meant to comfort and reassure, and I was thankful, as I pressed my head back into the supple old leather and fought to control my racing heart and ragged breath.

 

‘You are well Sherlock?’

 

His voice was hesitant and soft and there was fear there too, at the very edges which none but myself would have recognised for what it was, and only then because I recognised the same in my own breast. What he should fear I could only guess but for myself it was surely that I had, yet again, thrown in my lot with a stranger and entrusted my future welfare to them with nothing more to offer as service than my body, for as long as he would have me.

 

I could feel his gaze upon the side of my cheek, the way it traced from the top of my head down to my ear, then jaw then back up again, hovering over my still parted lips as the air puffed out of my lungs in ragged gusts.

 

I wanted to speak, I could not speak, as the words were not there to express the magnitude of the service he had done for me. But why? Why would he offer to become my benefactor upon so brief an acquaintance? I vexed my mind that could not perceive his thoughts.

 

‘I am well sir’ I said at last with a shaky exhale, and flinched a little at the sudden touch of his free hand, the right one, as he cupped my chin and turned my face towards him. His deep blue eyes were full of sadness and concern.

 

‘Please, I must impress upon you Sherlock you must not call me sir. It is John, and John only, Watson if you insist, but from this moment on we go forth as friends’, he gave pause and smiled at that final word so playful as his mind turned to that which we had so recently shared. I could not help but return it with a smile of my own. ‘And equals also’, he concluded with a determined nod.

 

John freed me for the time it took to pull the dark drapes across each carriage window, blocking out the light. The bustle of the early morning streets disappeared again, concealing us from the marker traders and early risers on their way to earn an honest day’s pay. He stood before me, swaying with the movement of the wheels over cobblestones and using one hand on the back of the seat to steady himself against the motion, he bent forward to kiss me full upon the lips. It was soft and sweet and all too brief, but my breath became laboured all the same, and then the spell was broken as the wheel hit a rut in the road and pitched John forward to sprawl in a most undignified way across my lap.

 

‘Are you hurt?’, I asked, my amusement masking any concern I may have felt. I tried to supress my laughter as he scrabbled for purchase and sought not to place his hand on a most intimate part of my anatomy, and my thighs parted half on instinct and half in sympathy at his plight. His head was buried in the crook of my arm, so I placed my hands upon his shoulders to aid him, pressing back to help him rise. But oh, that devious young libertine, instead of rising he used his weight to turn my body, grasping the tops of my arms to push me down until I lay along the full length of the seat. I should have been scared to be trapped this way, even more so when he planted a knee either side of my body and straddled across, arse planted square upon my thighs, but instead my whole body shuddered in anticipation, still and pliant. His weight held me pinned , but any desire to move evaporated when he untucked my shirt and ran his hands from my stomach up to my chest. His palms felt searingly hot as they trailed along my skin, heated and tingling until they wound a teasing path around each nipple. I made the most embarrassing of noises, torn from deep within my throat, wild and needy as he continued to pinch and roll. I arched into his touch, my head thrown back exposing the length of my neck. He took this as invitation, which I confess in my heightened state it was and he kissed at the pounding pulse beneath my skin, feeling out the beat of my heart against his tongue. The glorious sensation that he coaxed from the tortured nubs of flesh sent forth phantom, feather-like tremors of pleasure along to the head of my cock as if they shared some mysterious connection. My hips moved of their own accord, canting up helplessly against the weight of him still heavy upon my thighs, but indeed, you must believe me when I say I was driven to it by a desire too impetuous to resist, for I confess, I could not help it.

 

John released my swollen flesh and placing a hand either side of my head he bent forward, gasping as our clothed groins brushed against each other.

 

‘I shall have you’, he whispered as I swallowed around a tight, dry lump in my throat, distracted by the heat and hardness of his cock atop mine separated only by a few scant layers of cloth. I wanted to touch it, touch him, feel the weight of his sex in my hand, bring him to the heights of pleasure to hear him spend with my name upon his lips.

 

All of it. All of him.

 

Grown bold from the lustful need coursing violently through me, I wound my arms about his back to pull him down. His elbows buckled and he fell upon my chest knocking the breath from my lungs, but he gave it back threefold, as he covered my mouth with his own and parted my lips with an eager swipe of his tongue.

 

‘I shall have you this day, but not here, not like this in so public a place’, he said again, but with no real spirit of resistance behind those words I pressed my advantage and ground against him a little harder this time. For myself, I did not give a care that we might be discovered, or cared not to give it thought, and even as John insisted that we part, still we rubbed ourselves together in such an obvious and vigorous way that no-one could mistake what we were about, fucking with our clothes on.

 

How wanton, how sluttish you must think me, to cavort with a virtual stranger this way, but in honesty we were but two giddy young boys drunk on the possibility of love with no thought to what the future might bring. Besides, neither of us were in a state of undress which proved to be most fortuitous as the motion of the carriage changed of a sudden, the horses drawing to a stop.

 

Perhaps I should have thought to enquire as to our destination for I knew not where we were. Still in the centre of the city I guessed, going by the speed of the carriage and the time it had taken us to get there. John climbed down from on top of me with a shy smile full of apology for my disordered state, although I must admit, he himself looked no better than I for the experience. We brushed ourselves off as best we could, I tucked in my shirt and waited while John in an act of chivalry undid the clasps on my trunk and drew out a jacket and waistcoat, items I had failed to put on in the initial desperate flight. For our heightened colour and sweat-soaked skin there was nothing to be done, the saving grace being that neither one had spilled, not for lack of trying I might add, but still the unmistakable scent of sex hung in the air.

 

As we alighted from the carriage, as put-together as it was possible to be, the driver eyed us and the closed drapes with open curiosity.

 

‘My cousin suffers from the ocular migraine my man’ John announced in a voice of authority, ‘and the muted light does help to ease the pain’.

 

I did my best to appear indisposed, the sweaty curls that clung to my forehead giving an illusion of truth to the falsehood. I swear he believed none of it, if our mutual state of disarray did not give us away the place where he had encountered us surely would, Covent Garden was known as the square of Venus, the much famed residence of the London whore. If I had left my trunk behind perhaps we may have passed as two young patrons off home after a night with a mistress rather than an employee on the run. He said nought. I should imagine he had borne witness to much vice of this kind and was not so easily shocked.

 

We had arrived on John’s instruction at a public house in the heart of Chelsea, run by a jolly old stager who understood the complexities and varieties of love only too well. He leered at me and winked in a most lascivious manner, ‘You are well paired, a finer looking couple I never did see and I have seen a great many over the years, and you young sir are lately down from the country?’

 

‘You are most perceptive sir’ I said with barely concealed sarcasm as John steered me away and settled us at a secluded table by the fire. The warmth was welcome and the beer uncommonly good.

 

‘Will the old man keep our secret’ I said. John drained half a pint down in three thirsty gulps and set his tankard down on the table.

 

‘Oh yes’ he grinned, ‘he and his lover, who goes by the name of Oliver, they pretend to be cousins as we do, and have for twenty years or more, so I am told…so’ he went on, I am aware the horse has long since bolted from the stable door but still, I dearly wish to learn of your history, what brought you to London Sherlock and how in god’s name did you end up in a whore-house….and please forgive me for being forever grateful that you did so’.

 

I understood the sentiment, but for that simple twist of fate we may never have met. And so I told him of my family’s fall from grace by my father’s own mismanagement, by brother Mycroft and his estrangement while I was still a child, and then, the untimely deaths of both my parents. I could see his jaw, tensed and clenching with anger when I told him of Irene and how she hoodwinked me with the promise of employment and good fortune in the city, but I could not lay the blame at her feet for the life of me, for it was born of my own poor judgment.

 

‘And the rest you know, for you found me there’

 

‘Aye, and not a moment too soon’

 

‘And you?’

 

‘There is little to tell', he said, leaning back in his chair, 'my father is a merchant too and as his only son I am expected to join him in the family business’.

 

‘And you do not wish it?’

 

‘No’

 

The answer came quick and I could sense an underlying anger there. I waited with patience until he drained the last of his beer. He continued.

 

‘I wish to train as a Physician, but my father says he will not waste a penny more on education, but there is hope yet, my grandmother would dearly love to see me fulfil my ambitions and will gladly pay if only he would agree to it’

 

‘And he has refused?’

 

‘For now, and she will not go against him….I have an allowance, more enough to live on and some from my grandmother too, I would not have asked you to come away with me had it been otherwise’.

 

He glanced around, and once assured that no eyes were upon us, he reached across the table and gently took my hand in his.

 

‘And so…what say you Sherlock? Have you thrown yourself in with another bad lot? Do you think me a coward and a fool?’

 

‘For what? For wishing to follow your own path in life in your chosen profession as well as your heart? I never met a man with such courage…and I follow you willingly, wherever that may take us…but tell me honestly John, what is it that you truly want now?’

 

‘Ah’, he smiled, ‘that is quite easy…come upstairs awhile and let me show you’.


	8. Red Wine And Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers the delights of the flesh and things will never be the same again.

The time had come, and with that knowledge a little fear crept back into my heart. I had resisted the first unwelcome assault upon my virtue but had now chosen of my own volition to relinquish it willingly at no price other than our natural desire for one another. I cast the fear aside. He rose. I followed.

 

The room was light and airy with a pleasing prospect on the west side, over the square, but I was to see none of it. As soon as I stepped over the threshold John clicked the lock upon the door and turning, caught me up in his arms. If I had been a maid I am sure he would have lifted me from the ground, but I bested him in height by four inches or more and so we tripped and stumbled our way across the room kissing with a hunger born of desperation until I felt the press of the bed at the back of my thighs. He laid me down and kicking my legs apart a little, settled himself between them, his body pressed to mine, chest to chest, and bending, continued his glorious assault upon the soft, untouched skin of my neck. He licked and bit and sucked from clavicle to jaw while his hands held me steady, sure fingers twined into my errant curls. Oh the piteous little whimpers and moans which issued from my lips at this exquisite torture that defied all attempts to describe with mere words. The rough and smooth of a hot tongue sent spasms of fire and ice along every nerve and fibre as I shivered at the cooling wetness he left upon the surface of my skin.

 

How was I to bear it if this was only the prelude, and still fully clothed as our impatience had not suffered us to undress? The impossible heat of cock pressed up into John’s stomach. It ached, it throbbed, it twitched of its own accord with every touch and caress he pressed to me. I writhed a little in an attempt to ease the pressure and John stilled above me, and raising his head to prop on one elbow he used his other to smooth the sticky damp curls from off my forehead. We panted at each other like dogs on a hot afternoon.

 

‘Shall we undress now Sherlock, before your wriggling has me at a disadvantage’, he smiled, ‘For I am willing if you would like to try?’

 

How gallant, my sweet John, as if there were any other choice, for I would declare myself this minute the most cruel little cock-tease if I had said no. And so, as one, or each to our own, our need had gone beyond the point at which we could have willingly stopped, and the linen would be ruined by morning on either account. I felt his hardness against my hip. I wanted it, his cock within me.

 

Tom said it would hurt a little, just at first and knowing no different I assumed this to be truth, but I could not bring myself to trouble John’s earnest face with the thought that his affections may cause me not the pleasure he sought to give, but pain. He looked into my eyes and I swear despite myself he saw the faint flicker of apprehension which I had tried so very hard to conceal.

 

‘I will be very gentle with you’

 

I nodded my assent.

 

With great care he shuffled backwards and set his feet upon the floor, then pushing himself to rise, he stood and held out an arm for mine, clasping me at the elbow to draw me up. I stood before him not knowing who should undress whom, or whether to strip myself down alone as in preparation for the night-time.

 

How gauche, how like a child I felt once again as John sighed fondly at my hesitation and gently began to unbutton my shirt, deft fingers working with practised ease to lay my chest bare. He undid the cuffs too, and moving around to the back of me, drew it from my shoulders and pulled each arm free. Then his own strong arms encircled me from behind and he pressed his cheek between my shoulder blades and inhaled the scent of my skin. I sucked in deep, slow breaths to calm, my racing heart, sure that he must feel the strength of my longing, to feel and touch and taste in my turn. I know not how I endured. Warm dry palms came next, slightly calloused I was surprised to feel from regular practise with a pistol. They smoothed up the length of my torso, to chest, fingering the light smattering of downy hair which had lately begum to grow there, thence back down so firm and sure to the waist of my ruined breeches. I held my breath, stomach rigid with anticipation as each button came undone and they slid free, down my thighs to the floor below, stopped only by my shoes. I kicked them off in haste and using the heel of my foot and John’s arms for balance I rid myself of breeches and stockings alike. Now, only thin linen drawers remained and still I was denied the sight of his face as he stood behind me still. With my eyes squeezed shut, I felt the weight of his hands upon my hips, breath catching in my throat as that final scant barrier to my nakedness was gently prised away to join the rest at our feet.

 

It was done.

 

I looked down to see my own cock exposed, so hard and erect it almost stood to the vertical, foreskin retracted to bare its bright red head, a drop of pearly moisture already glistening at the tip. The feel of John against my back yet fully clothed made me feel so filthy and wanton, and yet more so when he reached down and cupped my full heavy bollocks to cradle the weight of them in his palm. He teased and pressed the hot, tight globes within their puckered shell, shifting and retreating by turns and sending blinding shocks of pleasure from root to shaft of my tortured cock.

 

‘Oh by all that is holy have mercy John’, I cried. I threw my head back with a moan and arching into him I reached out blindly with one arm for his neck, head, face, anything, the urge to feel his mouth on mine overwhelming my senses. Reason and restraint be damned for there was none here. Not anymore.

 

‘Will you not undress’, I gasped when at last I found my voice, and turned within his arms to come face to face at last, no longer willing to be denied the sight of him. His eyes had grown so dark the iris had almost gone black as he drank in my naked form.

 

‘You are so beautiful…how could you not know, how did others not see before me? What power is this that brought you to me, for I swear Sherlock, no man on god’s earth could be as fortunate as I just to look upon you’.

 

I blushed, for in truth I had never in my life considered the slightest bit of beauty in my looks, or felt myself worthy to hear such words spoken now, as they were, in undeniable sincerity. I saw only a vast expanse of skin, pale as milk if you be kind, or a corpse if you are not, limbs too long and slender to be elegant and too much prominence of bone. Although as a saving grace I thought archly, my cock was long and slender also and not unattractive as such appendages go, and well, we must take our advantages where we find them should we not?

 

‘You speak sweet words, but I know what you desire …shall I help you as you helped me?’

 

Our eyes locked for a heartbeat as we stood, breathing silently. I swallowed, hands poised at the buttons of his waistcoat, the top two already loose with the neck of his shirt open to expose a creamy white throat. A lone bead of sweat glistened in the hollow. Before I could think about the consequences of my actions I tangled my hand in the short waves at his nape and pulled down. His head tilted back and ducking beneath his raised chin I chased the salty drop with the tip of my tongue. It was like nectar, the taste of him, salt and musk and heat, so I lapped at his skin again and again with soft kitten licks designed to tempt and tease. I was truly a cruel creature, was I not for acts of sin to manifest in so natural a way within, or so it seemed to me. But what did I know, the innocent virgin come to taste the first?

 

But John, so sweet and pure of heart was not to be outdone as he grabbed me full about the arse, digging deep into those soft mounds of flesh. He pulled me to him and ground my naked cock against the rough chafing centre. ‘Does gentle not suit’, he growled as I squirmed against him torn between taking my pleasure and pulling apart from him, ‘Take care sweet virgin, for you play a dangerous game’.

 

‘It is what you love, the danger, what you choose…you have had many a blushing young maid in your bed, a man such as you….but yet…few have given you true satisfaction, am I wrong?’

 

‘I confess it, the soft curves and breasts of a woman are but a half-empty glass in a desert, your thirst is slaked but for a short time while you are slowly dying for want of more’

 

‘Then what is more?’

 

‘I wish for a good hard cock in my hand…the scrape of an unshaved face against my skin and a tight hole to fuck’.He ran his palm along the length of my cock in mirror to his words and I sucked in a breath at the feel of a fingertip as his hand stroked on the downward again, sliding slowly up the crack of my arse. He paused, gauging my reaction, and with a smile of satisfaction with what he saw in my eyes he circled, slow and teasing at the puckered skin. ‘Just like this…’

 

I felt weak at the legs and clung harder around his neck, his solid frame my anchor and support.

 

‘You jest’, I said, in a voice I barely recognised, rough and strained, pinned by the gentle brush of a single digit. And then it was gone, and the breath rushed out of me again.

 

‘Aye…as do you for in truth you know who it is that I want and what I seek’

 

‘Then press on, so you may have it’

 

His clothes were scattered in haste at my words, a plea and a challenge both, and so, I had my wish, hot flesh against hot flesh as the last fell to the floor and I saw him, unclothed for the very first. Perhaps he imagined me to have a greater experience than I had told, and perhaps I should have been more fully prepared, but I suspect no fumblings under cover of darkness with Tom would ever have readied me. A strange combination of fear and lust is what I felt, pure and unadulterated for never had I imagined a cock such as this, the largeness of it, that few men could dispute with him. A machine such as this would not simply take my virginity, it would tear it to shreds and shatter my very being. I wanted it. Badly.

 

‘Shall we to bed then, or do you wish to fuck upon the floor like animals?’

 

John winked at me to temper the crude image of debauchery he painted with an air of playfulness. They were words, designed to disguise the heart of him which I knew to be mine should I want it. And it was so.

 

The clean, crisp sheets felt cool beneath my skin as we slipped beneath them. We moved toward each other on instinct and I reached out tentative arms to twine them about his back, burying my face in the crook of his neck as I did so. ‘John’, I breathed into his skin, the warm ghost of my own words falling back against my own two lips as I spoke, and he answered with a murmured ‘Sherlock’, nuzzling his face in the curls atop my head and parting my rigid legs with his knee to insinuate a thigh between my own. My breath quickened. I could feel the roughness of wiry hair that coated his strong limbs where it brushed against the sensitive and oh so responsive skin of my inner thighs, enough to elicit a shiver of delight. But more so, I could feel the velvet hardness of his erect cock at the jut of my hip, pulsing deep with blood and wet at the tip. A gentle hand pressed beneath my chin and raised my head, and he reached out to trace the along the outline of my swollen mouth.

 

‘Do you know how it is done?’ he said in a low voice as he parted my lips with his thumb. I nodded my head in answer, I was not so much an innocent as that and to pretend otherwise would be wrong. He shifted his weight to roll on top, and pushed legs out to the sides so that he could lie fully between, joined along the length of our bodies, a thin film of sweat adhering to our clammy skin. He could feel me tense beneath him at the feel of his cock at the top of my thigh, so close to that part of me which he sought to penetrate, spread wide and vulnerable exposing my virgin hole.

 

‘Look at me Sherlock’ he said, ‘I do not seek to hurt you, I will only do as you want me to and nothing more for your pleasure means as much to me as my own’.

 

I shifted a little, an experimental roll of my hips in simulation of what was to come and as reassurance that I wanted this, craved this, to be seduced and loved and fucked by John. His eyes fluttered closed and he groaned aloud, matching my movements with a slow, torturous dance of his own, ‘Please’, I gasped, lifting up my legs to wrap around his back to pull him harder into me, startled by my own, deep desperation to feel his long thick cock inside my body.

 

‘Hush now’, he said with a smile, ‘For the whole house will soon know just what we are at… perhaps I should find a way to quiet you’.

 

I watched wide-eyed as he pushed two fingers to my parted lips and commanded that I suck upon them: and how could I refuse? I knew enough about the practise to realise just how he would use them and that compliance would be to my benefit, but could not have foreseen the sensual nature of the task. I rolled my tongue around his fingers, sucked and licked up and down between the cracks until he drew them out again, glistening and wet with my own saliva. Their destination I already knew, and the warm press of a slick, soaked digit at my entrance confirmed it to be true as first he gentled me with kisses and praise circling softly as I relaxed once more beneath him. I breathed deeply, great lungfuls sucked in through my nose and out, mouth pressed into a tight line, determined not to shoot off like a tom-cat as I had the first time as I braced myself for pain. But none came, just a mild sting at the stretch as he finally penetrated the borders, the passage eased by the slick that I had supplied, and once I had relaxed my rigid grip upon his arms, he began to move them in and out slowly at first and then more rapid, pausing at times to add another. He kept me there, suspended for what felt like an eternity as he pushed and probed and fucked me with his hand, and on each outward pull he drew across a place within which had me crying out in ecstasy at the touch. It was almost too much, this mastery over my senses, cruel and magnificent and I cried out once more as I felt my body tense, wits gone, near incoherent.

 

‘I want…I…John’

 

‘Promise me Sherlock’ he gasped, as he drew his hand away, the sudden emptiness inside me strangely disconcerting, the need to be filled again visceral.

 

I let myself be moved, manipulated to suit his purpose, legs draped across his shoulders to lift my arse up higher. And then, ohgodohgodohgod, I felt the first press of his cock against me, a bolt of sheer panic flooding my chest at the size of it. It was impossible, it could not, he could not, that stiff horn-hard gristle, battering at my most tender part, questing for admittance that I most feared would not come. His size would defeat me and deny us both. I could not let that happen. And so, I held my breath and stifled my cries as he pushed, the bitter tang of copper on my lips as I bit through the tender skin.

‘Oww’. It slipped out unbidden from my throat and John froze, ‘Shall we stop?’ ‘No’ I gasped, ‘press on, I can bear it’.

 

But could I? My desire not to disappointment bloomed strong, so I gritted my teeth and bore down, facing the pain and chasing it willingly, determined to submit to John’s pleasure whatever I foresaw I would cost me, misguided young thing that I was. John, however, had not taken leave of his senses as I had done, and seeing his lover, eyes clenched tight in agony, he halted, the head of his cock just barely within me.

 

‘I am hurting you’

 

‘No, no, I am well…let us just stay still awhile, it is strange, that is all’

 

‘You lie Sherlock…I will not cause you pain’

 

‘And I will not disappoint…please John’, tears of frustration and humiliation pricked at my eyes, ashamed at my failure, ‘please let us try once more’.

 

‘Oh Sherlock no, please do not distress yourself, I bare the blame for being so ill prepared. I had not bargained this day to have a lover in my bed. All will be well, I will make it right I promise’

 

He kissed away my shameful tears with such tenderness that I feared they would spring forth anew, but despite my protestations he would not go on, and withdrew his softened cock the skin smarting as if lit afire when he pulled it out of my body. It was not the first, he said, his size had cause to cool his passionate pursuits before and that it was both a blessing and a curse to be so generously endowed. But, he assured me, there were things that could be done, ways to dull the pain and to ease the penetration. We would try again.

 

Well? How did your first time go?

 

Was it a wondrous paradise of sensual delight? - No, I didn’t think so.

 

But still, it did nothing to lessen the ache in my heart, for you see, I believe I loved my sweet innocent John right from the very start.

 

And true to his word we did try again. Although first, to my dismay he dressed and left me for a while. I felt abandoned, despite his every assurance that he would be gone only a short time and then he would join me in bed again. I curled up tight within the folds of a thick woollen blanket. It was hot and stifling, but I cared not for I was miserable and wished him to know it, and so sulked like a child, nursing my wounded pride and a sore arse.

 

I swear I must have slept a little, lulled to sleep by the heat of the bed, for in what felt like only moments he had returned again, peppering the top of my head with kisses, the only part of me left exposed.

 

It had been a fruitful trip, on a visit to the apothecary he had procured a jar of salve, an ointment of dual purpose, to soothe my smarting skin and to grease up my arse and his cock. I dipped a tentative finger into this miracle concoction and declared it but an emulsified oil with no medicinal value bar as a lubricant. John just shrugged and said, ‘But is that not the point?’

 

But that was not all, our sympathetic landlord, who had, to my mortification overheard my cries and who understood all too clearly why, had donated a bottle of his finest red wine to the cause. It was pressed into John’s arms on his return as he mounted the stairs to our room with instruction to ‘get him so pissed he won’t know ‘is arse from ‘is elbow, then shove it in to the hilt m’boy’.

 

A most charming sentiment I’m sure you agree, and not one which I would ever countenance, whore or not.

 

I sat up in bed, propped against the headrest with every single pillow I could find plumped behind me like a prince upon his throne, John laughed, a very naked prince at that.

 

‘And is that what you will do?’ I said, my mind still fixating on the words of our esteemed landlord, as John sat by me on the bed and gave over the uncorked bottle into my hand, ‘get me roaring drunk and grease me up like a suckling pig afore you bugger me senseless?’

 

I took a large swig of the wine anyway, and gulped it down. It was bitter and woody, and left a black-cherry tang on the back of my tongue, reminding me of lazy summer days, and home. I swallowed again, to chase away the memory, the warmth slowly spread through my chest, limbs became soft and pliant again as I slipped into relaxation, not yet enough to intoxicate.

 

‘Fool that you are’, John said, plucking the bottle from my lips and replacing it with his own in the same instant, humming with pleasure at the sweet taste of wine upon my mouth. ‘I would not have you any other way than willing, there is much we can do if you cannot bear the intercourse’.

 

So noble, I am sure you will agree, but the streak of stubborn pride within me ran deep and I would not be swayed. We finished the wine between us, passing the bottle back and forth, both a little drunk by the time the last drop had slipped onto my tongue, and I flopped down on the bed and kicked the covers down with my legs until I lay naked and inviting again under his steady gaze.

 

‘My dear Sherlock, what a brazen tart you are’ he said, shedding his clothes with reckless abandon, all the quicker to lay himself over me. Youth was on our side and the liquor did nothing to dampen the strength of our desire to make love, and so, with care this time John placed a pillow under my hips to raise me up and bid me drape my legs over the top of his shoulders. I couldn’t give a care this time, loose with drink, my stomach shaking with laughter at the comedy that the sight of us must present, that I was to be fucked upon my back like a maid. And then, oh god, the laughter died in my throat at the first sweet push of his cock at my hole. The salve was a miracle, I take back my derision ten-fold, as he slid inside, inch by glorious inch. What pain could stand before a pleasure so transporting? What insupportable delight! We were joined at last, he was buried to the hilt within me holding still with the shock of it, and I pushed back against him to bid him move lest I die, I needed this so much. And so, he ruined me, for how would any other man even hope to compare to this.

 

This. This was all. This was Everything.

 

Each thrust of his hips, each slap of skin against skin, all the wet, slick sounds and breathless moans would remain forever etched inside my brain, a place where the only words I would ever need were John, John, John.

 

What floods of bliss! What melting transports! What agonies of delight!

 

I felt the warm gush of his seed within me as he came to his completion, and I fell, cock pulsing over my stomach and chest, such was the excess of pleasure that he pulled from me that no words could do it justice, virginity cast to the four winds at last.

 

I was his and he was mine forevermore.


	9. Out Of The Frying Pan...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John teaches Sherlock a thing or two, and past ties are broken at last.

 

 

I awoke the next morning with the light full upon me, shining through the open drapes which we had never thought to close, a faint pulse of pain striking at my brow as I blinked and looked around. A second bottle of wine stood on dresser by the bed, half empty, the first, the architect of my deflowering discarded on its side on the floor. Two empty plates lay there too and a crust of dried bread from a makeshift meal, the purpose of which had been only to replenish our strength in the aftermath of our physical exertions to prepare us for more.

 

John had not suffered me to move at all that day, bringing the food up himself from the kitchen below after dressing hurriedly, and so we had sat, and fashioned a makeshift table and tablecloth of the bed and sheets, and gorged ourselves. There were cold cuts of meat, cheese and fresh bread and a hearty stew made thick with pearl barley and yellow peas, a peasant food which tasted to us as fine as anything to be found at a gentleman’s table. Our landlord prepared it himself, and we had his most ardent assurance that it would ‘put hairs on our chests’. If that be true I said, it would indeed be a culinary miracle, the first of its kind to stimulate follicular growth, and men from miles around would come to rub it upon their baldy pates in the hope of regaining the crowning glory of their youth.

 

John said I was a ridiculous creature to think of such things, and taking the plate from my hands he had placed it on the floor and pushed me onto my back again covering my body with kisses aplenty on every inch of naked skin, which was masterful feat as I had yet to go to the bother of clothing myself. For what was the point? I wished to be naked and lie with him, all the better to give free reign to the rage and tumult of my senses which only he could inspire, and so, that night, overspent and satisfied we had given ourselves up to the arms of sleep at last, a mess of sweaty limbs, tangled together.

 

Now, on waking, I had cause to reap the less pleasurable effects of that which we had sown the day before, a sore head and mouth like an arid desert from the wine and a stinging arse from a most delightful fucking, of which I was determined never to issue a word of complaint, for I would endure much discomfort for the chance to drown in those liquid sweets again.

 

I shifted a little, enough to dislodge myself from beneath John’s sleeping form and roll to the side of the bed where a pitcher of water had been placed on the chair by its side. I could not see a cup and so I raised myself to sitting and placing the spout at my lips I tipped it and poured. Some went in my mouth, most refreshing as far as it went, parched as I was, the rest trickled down my chest and soaked into the sheets that were rucked around my hips making me curse and shiver. A shirt still lay discarded on the floor, mine most likely, and so I caught it up and dabbed at my skin to dry up the mess I had made.

 

John sighed alongside me, and so I placed the pitcher back upon the chair as soft as I could manage so as not to wake him and turned over again, all the better to gaze upon him as he slept, snoring softly. Amused and enchanted in equal measure, I lay down, my hands folded upon the pillow beneath my head, so close I could feel the warm puffs of his breath on the side of my face, tickling at the curls of hair around my ear.

 

It was just too irresistible, this chance to feast my eyes upon his beauty, so young in sleep, face smoothed of all lines of care. He was sprawled upon his belly, sheets in a tangle around his knees from where we had kicked them down to seek relief from the heat of our restless motions the night before, and there they had stayed as we slept, kept warm only by the press of skin against skin. He looked so perfect, a full ruby pout, swollen from my mouth on his. I touched my own, and felt the ghost of his touch still upon them, smarting at the edges from the delicate scratch of hair on his upper lip. My gaze lingered, seized with a desire to lean forward and steal a kiss, but I refrained despite the violence that it caused within me, for I did not wish to wake him as I was not yet done. I traced the curve of his neck where blond hair lay in soft waves at the nape, the skin creamy white and inviting, so much so that I had yielded the night before and left my mark upon him, a mottled patch of purple and red at the hollow where it met his shoulder, a strange sense of satisfaction and pride welling up within me at the sight of it.

 

I had done that to him. There was no doubt that my skin would look much the same.

 

And then, as if to oblige my voyeuristic desires he sighed and stretched, rolling over onto his back as he did so, with an arm flung across his eyes to block out the light. He did not wake, chest rising and falling with the even measure of deep, contented sleep and so I was favoured with the full exposure of all his naked charms. It was a most perfect form. Such delicacy of complexion, such smoothness of skin, furred at the centre with soft blond curls the blushing peaks of two nipples poking above, erect from the night-cooled air. His limbs were so exact in shape and form, gently muscled arms to hold me tight, strong, firm thighs the power of which I had lately felt, the relentless delicious thrusting as he fucked me still fresh within my mind.

 

I traced back up again skipping over the his centre, just for a moment so that I might have the pleasure of following with my eyes the trail of hair which led in a line from his navel down into a thatch of wiry hair to that fearsome instrument, capable of inflicting upon me in equal measure the heights of blinding pain and ecstasy. But what of it now as it lay so innocent and soft against his thigh, the vermillion head half-capt, no longer filled with blood to lunge for the attack? The hot, stiff shaft was now but rendered supple and pliant, resting languid atop that rounded purse of nature’s own sweet delights of which I longed to taste once more. It was shorter in this view, squat and thick, but still much bigger than many a man could boast I was sure, myself among them and I thought it the most beauteous thing I had ever beheld.

 

Who could imagine it the cause of such mischief and cruelty as it had lately wrought?

 

I felt the sweet flame ignite within me as I looked upon it, imagining all the things which we had yet to do and that I both feared and craved. How would it be to sink within him as he had done to me, holding his hips as I pushed into his willing body and spilled my seed inside him? Or he, on his back as he was this minute guiding me down to impale myself upon his cock? I flushed as I felt myself harden, aroused by the image of debauchery conjured from my own mind and stole my hand down beneath the rumpled sheets, heart racing at the thought of touching myself in this way while he slept alongside me, oblivious. My eyes closed and I sighed.

 

‘Good morning sweet prince’

 

I jumped and my eyes snapped open at his voice, low and rendered rough with sleep and a need for water to soothe his throat. My cheeks flooded with colour.

 

He smiled, ‘Do not stop on my account, I would dearly love to look upon your face again as you spill for it is a beautiful sight’.

 

He propped himself up on one elbow and leaned across to where I lay, but I blushed and pulled my hand back, placing it atop the covers with the other one where he could see it. The evidence of my guilt was clearly visible between my legs.

 

‘Still so shy’, he teased, bending to kiss me softly on the lips, the tip of his tongue sliding smoothly along to part them and lick inside a while, and with his hand he smoothed the hair back from my brow. ‘I could feel your eyes upon me’, he whispered, breaking the kiss to look down into my eyes. ‘Did you imagine I did not know? You dreamt of it last night….how I took you, and you think of it still’.

 

And then, he reached his hand down between his own thighs, not mine, where the press of his length against my hip told of desire reawakened, and taking himself in hand he stroked it again to full effect. Satisfied with what he felt there, he took my hand in his and guiding it down, pressed my palm to the hot shaft and curled my fingers round it beneath his own. So smooth like velvet and delicious to the touch, stiffening still more under the heat of our two palms, it twitched with a life independent.

 

‘This is what you do to me’, he said, ‘just the sight of you here in the bed beside me watching as I sleep, so innocent, thinking still that you have not the right to reach out and touch me as you wish. What are you afraid of? That now I have had my way I will abandon you?’

 

His words struck at the heart of me, for they spoke of a truth which I had sought to conceal, for I knew he had lain with many women too, and that would be the easier path for him in the end. Social acceptance and propriety, which only a wife and family could give, not a life of rumour and suspicion such as he must endure if he remained close to me.

 

‘People will talk’ I said, ‘and those of your circle will know with full certainty that I am no cousin to you, you take a great risk if we were to continue’. I looked away and worried at the skin of my lip with my teeth, breaking through the tender skin.

 

‘Ah, but these _people_ you speak of are apt to do little else’, John sighed against my skin, ‘and what is this _‘if’_ I hear, from these very lips? I will not be parted from you as I care nought for their damned convention nor for any consequence, and so, we _will_ continue’.

 

And continue he did, kissing his way down my body to dispel my fears for all that had not yet transpired. A nip here, a light suck there, the trail of a hot wet tongue tracing snake-like, heedless of the shivers and tremors the teasing touch inspired, such sweet, sweet torture, and he knew it, knew all, saw in my face what he did and smiled throughout taking pleasure from my growing desperation.

 

So, so, cruel and magnificent. I was his, the power he wielded in that moment absolute.

 

But still he did not stop, crawling steadily backwards as he moved yet further down, eyes never once leaving mine, he raised an eyebrow as if in challenge to tell him stop, or no, for would you believe me friend, if I was to say that I was as yet unsure what he was about? He reached out, taking my cock in his hand, and I thought he only meant to bring me off that way as we had done before, but then I watched slack-jawed as he steadied the shaft and took the length of me into his open mouth. Anything, he could have done anything and I would have lain there willingly, but this exceeded all that had come before, the sight of his kiss- swollen lips which spoke such sweet words of love wrapped around my cock, sucking hungrily.

 

I cried out, fisting the sheets on which I lay as I fought back the urge to move my hips for fear I would choke him, the wet heat of his mouth and the frantic push and pull as he bobbed his head overwhelming in its intensity. He eased back a little, sensing the tension, tightly coiled within. With firm sure strokes he licked from root to tip as if he sampled some great delicacy, flicking over the blood hot head as he lapped up the fluid that had gathered there.

 

If this was meant to calm he was mistaken, for it only served to inflame me more, as I saw with my own eyes the relish with which he tasted that very essence, the core of my sex.

 

‘John what do you do?’

 

The restlessness within me caused me to cant up my hips again, eager for more but afraid all along it was too much to bear. He reached out with a firm hand to press me back down to the bed, pulling his mouth away with a final languorous flick of the tongue. Warm soft waves of hair brushed against the skin of my thigh as he laid his head down to breathe a little at last.

 

I squinted down at him and wriggled a little in silent plea for attention, for I did not want him to stop, and he laughed, a throaty chuckle as he petted and stroked, rubbing circles at my hips to calm me. I would not be calmed, my heart beating out a frantic staccato rhythm.

 

‘Let me convince you a little more’ he said archly, as if I was not already undone, and holding me still sucked down the length again. This time I could not stop, could not help the way my body’s response. My hands reached out blindly and I tangled my fingers into his soft blonde hair, pressing down, for if I could not move the way I wanted too then I would endeavour that he should, but my inexperience betrayed me and he choked a little as I felt my cock hit the back of his throat. I pulled my hands back in horror at what I had done, but he pulled them back, placing them gently at the crown, just resting lightly. I could feel him smile around me as the tension rose, my head thrown back, straining to arch, the only part of my back in contact with the bed were my shoulders. And then to finish the task, he cupped my bollocks in his hand and squeezed lightly, pinching and rolling, tongue swirling around me. I tried to pull away as the wave of pleasure reached its peak, but he held fast, sucking down hard, one last time, enough to make me pulse and shake, spurting helplessly down his throat.

 

He swallowed all, I could feel it was so, and again and again it came most violently, such that I thought it would never be done and we would stay like this for all eternity. But these things must end, and so it did, and I trembled, although I know not why. John felt it, and crawling back to lay beside me he took me in his arms and covered our bodies once more beneath the warmth of the thick woollen blanket.

 

There were no words for me to say for speech had failed me once again, and so, taking my face between his hands he honored me instead with a kiss which said _‘I know’_ and _'I_ _love_ _you also’_ , while on his lips I could taste myself.

 

He would have been content to lie, to give me pleasure and take none, for that was his true nature, to put the needs of others before himself. But how could I not repay that which was so generously bestowed?

 

Unskilled as I was in the bedroom arts, there was one act of which I was fairly sure my competency was sufficient to yield the desired result, and so, I took him in hand, pleased with the gasp I drew from him, testing the weight of him in full arousal, heavy with mingled sweat and the first slick from within. I worked him quick and firm the way I knew I loved myself when at that point when lightness of touch be worse than none at all. He rolled towards me, fucking up into the tight narrow channel I fashioned for him until he spilled panting, upon my thigh.

 

Who would have known my John was so debauched? That he was to teach me as much about the art of love as was to be found in many a whore-house? But still, it saddened me a little that I was not his first as he was mine, and he knew my mind as ever and as was in his nature he tried his best to reassure.

 

And so, for three whole days we did not leave that room, except to bathe or to answer the call of nature and to scavenge in the kitchen for food. We talked too, long hours spent in revelation of our deepest hopes and dreams. For myself I wished for adventure and the mysteries of life and human nature to be revealed to me, like a science of observation so that I may never again be ensnared, for then I would know what dwelt in the blackest of hearts and of any who wished me ill. John thought with great excitement that we might partake of this together and declared our first mission to be the mystery of the missing Mycroft, for he could not be convinced that my brother had truly gone, and that perhaps he had gone overseas and thought me safe still, in Lancashire with my family.

 

‘How did it come about, the dissolution of your father’s affairs?’

 

‘I was not of age when he passed, and so the task fell to a government appointed lawyer, for you see he had many debts outstanding and so all his remaining assets reverted to the Crown’

 

‘And you did not inherit?’

 

‘Nothing, not a farthing was left, my inheritance such as it was came from my mother, a few trinkets and baubles that she had no daughter to pass along to, the lawyer could not trace my brother, no death, no marriage, not that I ever imagined there would be, and no record of him leaving the country’

 

‘It is an intrigue indeed, and one that we will solve together for it would make my heart glad to see you reunited’.

 

I protested a little, for how could we succeed when I had no money or connections and no education worth speaking?

 

‘Pish’ he declared, ‘You do yourself a great disservice, for I know you to have a keen eye and a cutting tongue. You will be a great man one day and it will be my honour to help you on that path, and until that day comes, you may take full advantage…of my connections of course’.

 

That we were the subject of gossip too was brought to our attention on the morning of the third by our landlord. He met us upon the landing as we came back from a bath which we had shared, more water on the floor than in the tub by the time that we were done. We were stripped to the waist with only our drawers on when we were brought up short by his broad burly figure, clearly ogling us both in our state of undress. From the corner of my eye I could see John’s shoulders shaking with mirth as that good fellow grew hot in the face, not knowing who or what to look at next. He settled on my navel and the trail of dark hair below it.

 

He coughed, nervously. ‘This aint no Molly-house lads’ he said, with an expression of real regret as he brought himself together and looked me in the eye, for we knew how things stood with him, ‘And people talk…namely, about those bonny young lads what are currently sharing a room that has only the one bed, which they are known to be currently sleeping in together and doing god knows what in…except I do know, he added, ‘having been there meself many moons ago’.

 

‘Do you mean to say we are no longer welcome here?’ I said, narrowing my eyes. Clearly, something had happened for the patrons of this establishment were a tight-knit and fairly bohemian bunch , and so it would seem that someone, a stranger of some sort had put the fear of god into them. Either way, I could tell by his demeanour that our time here was done.

 

‘No indeed, do not misunderstand, you would have a place here always, gladly, but the law boys, I could have the law down on me if this reaches the wrong ear’.

 

Ah, I had deduced correctly then, though it gave me no pleasure to have the right of it, and he only meant to ease the sting by his claim that he would always bid us welcome. We could not come back here.

 

‘Give me the day then’, said John, moving to stand defiantly at my side, ‘to settle on another lodging, where Sherlock will be safe, for I have yet some business to settle on his account across town’.

 

This was the first that I had heard, and he ignored my questioning looks until we were safely ensconced once more inside our room, where he sat me down on the bed , he on the chair facing me.

 

‘Do you trust me Sherlock, for I will go this very day and release you from any and all ties which bind you to that damnable place so that we will never have to think upon it again, I have thought about this much during our time here and it is the most practical course, we will then be free to pursue any path we choose’

 

‘I am not helpless’, I said in protest, for how could I count myself a man if I hid behind the coattails of another and let them deal with my indiscretions?

 

‘That I know’, he smiled, cupping my jaw to bid me look at him, ‘You are surely the most extraordinary creature I have ever known, but this, this is too important to leave to chance and we must be free of its shadow if we are to go on. I have a friend who will help us, all I ask is your consent’.

 

Well how could I say no? He only wished to clear the slate so we could move forward unhindered, and as he had already guessed, my reluctance to leave the comforts of our lover’s bed and venture forth grew stronger as the days wore on.

 

He left at noon, and just as before I vented my displeasure to hide my true feelings in a shameful display of childish petulance, for I was afraid that they would guess at his part in my flight and cause him harm, with no-one there to bear witness. Truly, I do not know how he found the patience to deal with my volatile temperament that had vexed so many before. That, I can only attribute to his own sweet nature and plain common sense in the face of my emotional excess. I had surely for that, found the other half to my whole.

 

He took a carriage from the square, visible from our bedroom window and I watched him go, waiting till the horses turned the corner out of sight before I turned away again. He would head first he had said, to Holburn, where he would call upon his friend Charles Worthington who was a pupil barrister at Gray’s Inn on South Square, and from there he would head back towards the tumult of Covent Garden and my oppressor to secure my freedom.

 

The ruse was genius in its simplicity. They entered together, much to the delight of the girls of that establishment for they had seen him many times before, a clear favourite, and how could it be otherwise with all the charms that nature could bestow at his disposal?. This alone was enough to pique my curiosity, trying to deduce which of them he may have shared a bed with, tying myself in knots of pointless jealousy, for was I not the one he had bid run away with him? But here, his purpose was to act as the chance companion of his lawyer friend who had come on a matter of business for a client, not as one seeking sexual congress.

 

He allowed the girls to fuss and preen around him, accepting the offer of cheese and wine while he waited for the lady of the house to come down, sipping nonchalantly while listening with half an ear to the idle gossip around him.

 

Upon the arrival of Mrs Turner, Charles who had been briefed most fully, and as is the way with the lawyer cut straight to the quick. He inquired in a most detached manner, whether or no she had decoyed, under the pretence of hiring as a servant a young man by the name of William Sherlock Scott Holmes, who had lately arrived in town from the country, a tall, dark-haired lad of sixteen years or thereabouts, from Lancashire. She looked most nervous, but remained tight lipped and so, our good friend went in hard with talk of a Justice of the Peace, The Old Bailey and a spell in Newgate if she did not cooperate, and at the least she could be sure if Indicments against her for the keeping of a disorderly house and pillory for the crime of perjury if she continued to maintain her innocence.

 

This proved decisive, and a thousand protestations and excuses were forthcoming from that point on as she imagined that I had lodged an information against her and looked for a way to wriggle out from beneath the stern gaze of the law, and protect her good name (What a lark!) such as it was. Charles was triumphant, bringing forth the documents for her to sign, that assured for me a clearance and discharge of any demands on the house, in layman’s terms, I would not take it further if she would relinquish me from any and all obligations. It was a precaution, as we were assured no court of law would uphold any claim she might believe to have over me.

 

It was enough. To all intents and purposes I was free.

 

John was gone half the day, returning as the lamp-lighters began to make their rounds, room bathed in a strange half-light as I had yet to rise and light the candles, for it was something we had always done together. I was filled with a grinding impatience, as the passage of time had done little to ease the uncertainty and fear that had made a place inside me. But all was dispelled at the sight of his face as he burst into the room and caught me up in a most tight embrace, laughing joyfully. Any reproach for his long absence died upon my lips as he kissed away the last remaining shreds of doubt.

 

He related his tale thus:

 

‘She was like a feral cat that had been declawed’, he laughed, ‘of course she denied all at first the wily old hag, but then all changed with talk of the Justice…to see her cowed was a pleasure indeed’.

 

‘How did she see my part?’ I asked, curious as to whether Tom had indeed kept the truth of my flight to himself as he had promised.

‘Well, from what I could gather from the ladies of the house, you know how they love to gossip I am sure, they had been led to believe you had made your escape to some relation or other that you had recollected in town’.

 

‘They did not suspect you?’

 

‘Not at all’, he said, eyes shining, ‘No-one knows we ever spoke, much less that you struck up a bargain with a stranger, and the hour was so early none saw us leave, or had any idea that you would have the means to take a carriage…all except one…’.

‘Ah’. I stepped away from him and lowered my eyes as a mark of my guilt, for I had kept this knowledge from him.

 

‘Ah indeed’, he said, ‘Why did you not tell me Sherlock? Did you think I would be angry that you shared a bed with him… and more?….For if that is so then you are wrong. I am not such a child as to think you untouched, virgin or no’.

 

‘Did he speak?’

 

‘Aye, as we were leaving…. he was not there at the outset and we met him on his return, so none from the house could have heard what passed between us…he asked only if you were well, of which I assured him that you were very well indeed…and so he sends his regards, and that he would keep your secret close to his heart for both our sakes’.

 

I wondered if that was all that had passed, for if I knew that lady at all it was as one not to be spurned, and so, we may have thought that it was over, for in the eyes of the law it was true, but Tom’s words were still enough to trouble me.

 

So, all that remained was to secure new lodgings with haste. It would be a wrench indeed to leave this place which in a bare few days had become infinitely endeared to me, for it is where I found my happiness and gave up that which can never be twice lost. But leave we must, for the die had been cast and it was time to move on to seek the adventure that we had spoken of, although, I could not shake the feeling that our hand had been forced on that account and somehow our every footstep dogged.

 

Whatever had passed today was not yet done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some terms mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> Pillory : A wooden framework with holes for head and hands - prisoners were locked inside and exposed to public abuse.
> 
> Molly-house : This could be an 18th century tavern, private room, or even a private house (Mother Clap's is a famous example) where gay and cross-dressing men came to socialize and have sex. Mock-marriages were also a common feature of these establishments.


	10. .....And Into The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John find new lodgings, John reveals a secret and Sherlock learns it may not be so easy to shake off his past.

On the advice of Charles Worthington , who had played his part so well on our behalf, John procured for us the very next day new lodgings in a more respectable part of town. I took him at his word on this, my knowledge of the city reaching only as far as our much-missed room in the Chelsea pub and the none too salubrious enclave of Covent Garden. And so we removed that evening, along with my meagre possessions to a private house in St James, Duke Street.

 

Our new abode was a town house of significant size on a quiet square, divided into several private dwellings, rented by the room. We ourselves were to take two rooms on the second floor, which for proprieties sake had an adjoining door between them and a closet to share. The price was set at half a guinea a week which John made all assurance that his allowance would amply cover, and laundry was to be extra as was the service of our new landlady’s own personal maid to attend to our needs and wait on us, if we should wish it so.

 

I feel the lady of the house knew how things stood with us the minute we entered her domain, but I recognised in her too something of the mercenary and the advantage of letting out her rooms being her sole objective, the truth about the nature of our friendship would have scarce raised an eyebrow nor have cause to make her break the bargain.

 

We were now rendered respectable, or as near as could be without full knowledge of the disreputable harridan with whom we had thrown in our lot.

 

Let me tell you of Mrs Davis, so that you might know the face of evil when you look upon it, and if you might think that the fairer sex be not capable of the worst barbarities and degradations that a human can commit against its fellows then remember these words and take heed.

 

She purported to be a widow, the first lie of many to follow, who had come upon her fortune with the passing of her much beloved husband. In truth, my lady had lived out her days thus far as a kept woman, the mistress of a gentleman banker with a wife and three children who lived out of town in Hampshire. Whatever charms she may have possessed to ensnare him had on his demise given him cause to provide an annuity of forty pounds during the remainder of her lifetime. But what would prompt such a generous endowment? Her figure and demeanour were unremarkable. She had but a sallow complexion and trivial appearance, by which I mean to indicate she would not warrant a second glance in a crowded place, insignificant and unmemorable despite the redness of her hair, grizzled and grey at the temples. (This I was to find worked well to her advantage). She did not disclose her age, nor had she any cause to but was much above forty by my reckoning, of which John would concur, his father’s housekeeper being of a similar age and stature.

 

Then all came to light, upon the discovery that the reason for her elevated station occurred first and foremost from the child she had borne him almost seventeen years ago. And what of this young woman? Did she enjoy all the advantages of life that her generous father could bestow? It may please you to know that she is safe from harm and will remain so, no thanks to the one who brought her forth into this cruel despicable world. Mrs Davis, ever one with an eye to turn a profit had sold her own daughter you see, to a foreign envoy of Arabian descent who had been much struck by the delicate, flame-haired creature. But what began as lust soon turned to a love deep and genuine, and the pair were married in secret.

 

The gentleman was not wholly blameless of course, having dealt willingly with a mother who would not baulk to turn a profit from her own flesh and blood, but he is much redeemed in my opinion in his resolve to break all future contact between mother and daughter.

 

Did the lady shed a tear at the separation? I think not, for now she had devised many a devious way to make coin, and nothing was beneath her, for now, being well versed in the ways of this town she traded in secrets of a private nature, turning seven hundred and fifty a year and in denying herself the full luxuries of life she resolved also, to squeeze every last penny she could from her hapless lodgers.

 

I think then, that you understand our position. We had a secret and one that we wished to remain so for now, but above that, she knew me for a whore from the minute I stepped through the door. So, it would seem did another of her lodgers who on seeing me had proposed to have me at any price if she could part me from my protector.

 

And so it began again .

 

But still, I look back now upon our first days at St James as happy ones. Our rooms themselves were adequate, plainly furnished and comfortable each with a bed of four posts, a wardrobe for clothing and a chaise set before a small hearth in which a merry fire burnt warm and inviting. John saw no sense in spending more of our limited finance to furnish them with anything finer, and I must applaud his frugality in this regard, he being ever the practical one.

 

The beds we resolved to make use of in an alternating fashion so as not to arouse suspicion amongst our fellows or to alarm the young maid should she happen upon us, but I would not sleep separate on any account, the need for his warm naked body as vital to me now as water and air.

 

John had sent out at noon that day for clothing from his father’s house, to arrive by messenger by nightfall, having nothing more than the garments he had worn since the start, our very first meeting in the hallway of Mrs Turner’s. I wondered at their tolerance of his continued absence from the family home, but found he was much indulged in this way and had scarce spent a night in his childhood bed these past six months and so his removal to Duke Street was unquestioned. In fact I am inclined to believe that his father was relieved that he had settled for a while, instead of hopping from tavern to tavern with a band of carousing friends.

 

“What shall we do?” John said.

 

He was sat on the chaise by the fire in his room, newly lit to stave off the chill of the evening air. His waistcoat was slung across the bed, shoes and stockings on the floor beneath, and so he appeared to me the image of true beauty with his bare chest exposed, shirt unbuttoned to the waist to reveal his unrivalled form. I shed my clothes, all but the thin linen drawers, and climbed upon the chaise beside him, laying myself down until my head was nestled atop his thighs. I wriggled around to face him, long legs dangling off the end somewhat, and so I drew them up and folded them beneath me as best I could.

 

John smiled down at me, and gently reached out a hand to stroke the hair back from my brow, and it pleased him greatly as I melted into every touch. Truly, if I had been a kitten I would have purred, but enhanced my feline qualities with an arch of my back as his hands chose to continue a downward path.

 

“You distract me”, he said, stroking along my spine, “how is a man to think when you throw yourself before me in this way, near-naked , the fire-light reflected in your eyes such that I cannot bear to look away?”

 

“You asked what we should do”, I said, stretching out a little with a languid flex of my hips, “and here I give my answer, you have lavished me with such attentions that I only wish to give back pleasure in my turn”.

 

“Indeed?” he laughed, “And as I have taken it upon myself to indulge your every whim that is in my power to do so, I thank you for your candid words and accept”.

 

His tone was light in jest, but his eyes were dark as bowed his head to me, and taking up one of my folded hands, placed it upon his chest. He closed his eyes and sighed, hunching down further to lay his head against the back of the chaise and jolted only a little as my hands decided on another path than the one that he had placed me on, working deftly at the buttons below his belt. For I knew what I wished to do, to take him in my mouth as he had me, to feel the weight of his hard, velvet shaft upon my tongue and taste the bitter liquid passions that would spill there. And so I freed him, warm and pulsing, the musky scent a balm to my senses, cock-head already ruby red and glistening at the slit. I marvelled at how once this would have scared me, the size, the animal ferocity, the very maleness of him, and that now I craved it all, the bone deep desire to be taken and fucked. He shivered at the first gentle press of my tongue, just a touch light and quick then off again, retreating to look back in wonder as it twitched and jerked as if it possessed a will all its own. Then boldly, my hand at the root for guidance, I spread my lips wide and crammed my mouth full.

 

For how was this to be done?

 

I could scarce take a jot, the smooth silken head of him being all that would breach me at the start, and so it had been with my arsehole, tight and closed against him till I learned to trust that I would not come to harm. I pushed my tongue along the underside and the slick slide of saliva eased the passage enough that I might take in more, and in doing so he cried out, my dry lips dragging somewhat rough and unprepared for skin more delicate than it appeared.

 

I felt my efforts were poor when compared to the ecstasy which he had inspired with the same, and so drawing off, I licked around my lips, drank a draft of wine from the cup on the hearth by our side and bent my head to try again.

 

The second time was better, and moisture being all in these acts I did not mind so much the drizzle of my own spit as it ran down my chin, bobbing my head a little as he had done and taking in breath through my nose. My jaw ached, stretched wide to splitting point and the touch of John’s hands upon my head pushing down gently at the crown forced an unholy amount to jerk down my throat and choke the very air from me. I gagged a little and pulled away, this was not how I had imagined it to be, so very taxing and uncomfortable in nature, and though I knew what pleasure he had brought me I was not fit for the task and could not do the same.

 

Dejected and worn I lay silent, my nose buried in the thick curls around his cock stroking his hips in quiet apology for my failure. John played idly with my hair, drawing a curl through his fingers to wind it around and then let it fall back against my face again. My skin had grown cold as the fire in the grate died down and I curled myself inward, knees pulled to my chest and an arm wrapped around to pull them still tighter.

 

“My first time”, John began, “They held me down and shoved it so far down my throat I thought I might die, and still, when they let me catch a breath, they kept my head fixed and fucked me in the mouth so hard the skin of my lips bled raw”.

 

I raised my head, shocked beyond belief. I felt despair and disgust that such an act of love could be twisted into violence, and the violation of one so good and pure of heart. My consternation and anger grew as I learned that this had been no random act, but a planned attack, and not by a full grown man but a group of mere boys, a common enough practise he told me, in the hallowed halls of the fine public schools of England. Being small of stature, and even more so then, he was an easy target for their planned debaucheries, as each took their turn, three in all only laying off when he proved himself an equal with his fists, and a sure shot marksman with the musket and pistol. He kept one hid beneath a board by his bed after that, and swore that the next man to touch him so would be dragged down with him into hell.

 

“I am sorry if I scared you. I swear by god Sherlock I would never seek to hurt you in that way, I….”

 

I sat up then, and climbed into his lap, pressing kiss after kiss to every inch of skin that I could find. My John, so warm and gentle that it could never be so between us, and it pained me that he felt so much to blame, when all that had occurred was born my own inexperience and expectation. And though I wished to weep for an innocence lost so much before my own, I did not, for that would pain him more.

 

There was not room for two boys full grown to lay upon the chaise, and so I drew him down onto the rug by the fire and pulled him on atop me there. The fire burned along the right side of my body, warming me through again as I frantically pulled at the last of his clothes needing to feel the press of him on my skin and his cock slick and sliding alongside my own. When we were bare, we wrapped our hands together, one each around the width held firm into a smooth tight channel, and so we fucked each other as it were, flesh against flesh until that cresting wave overtook us at its height. John devoured me, head pressed back into the floor I surrendered my mouth to the cause the sticky release from his hand smearing across my cheek. I caught that hand, and with devilish intent I sucked each digit in my mouth in turn and licked them clean. Salt and earth fell upon my tongue and I drank it in gladly for that had been my goal, to taste him, us, and though not in the way first expected I was satisfied at last.

 

Later as we lay upon the bed, covers drawn up to keep out the chill once the fire had gone out, John turned to me, and taking my face in his hands so that he might see my eyes he spoke:

 

“We will be happy, I will make it so. Never doubt what I feel and what I would not do to see you in health and comfort. I know we are but boys, but I will be a man for you, always, for none has ever touched my heart so deep and so true”.

 

I slept a deep and dreamless sleep that night, and he did too, for we did not stir again until the light shone full and high mid-morning and started awake at the gentle tapping that sounded upon the door.

“I must go”, I whispered, and leapt out onto the floor, wincing as I stepped upon a shoe discarded from the day before, and grasping with frantic hands to catch up the clothes I had shed with such lustful intent. My own bed lay neat and untouched, and so I dashed through the door that connected to two chambers and diving, rolled madly around on the covers. John laughed heartily at the sight of me.

 

“The maid”, I hissed, “she must not know”.

 

“Sherlock”, he answered, “I can barely think for wondering at the sight of you, with your lily- white arse and cock bobbing free, get your drawers on now so that I might let her in”.

 

I obliged ungraciously and stuck out my tongue like a child, making sure to bend over at the waist for full effect and pull the linen on slowly. His eyes were firey and dark as I closed the door upon him to separate us both, though I thought it unjust that we should not be free to share our love in whichever way we chose.

 

The murmur of voices came from beyond. John, ever the gentleman spoke gently to the maid to enquire if we might break our fast, and to convey his sincerest apologies for the lateness of the hour. It was brought to my room on his request and we took it in front of the fire that we lit of our own accord, having left it banked and prepared, but unlit from the night before. It was plain fare of bread rolls and damson preserves with a pot of weak hot chocolate which provided more of warmth than of taste or sustenance, but we still ate all, and it pleased John to see me eat heartily.

 

“Much as it pleases me to see you naked”, he said with a mouth full of crumbs, “I think we must for decency’s sake buy you more clothes. What say we go into town today and seek out a shirt or two and the rest, as there is nothing of mine that would be fit for you, and you do not have any spare” .

 

I thought of my pouch, safe in the depths of the trunk with the remnants of my fortune hid inside, and though it had been much reduced by my passage to London, there remained enough I knew to fit me out as he would wish. And so I resolved to make use of it, for he had done all to this point and this would bring more of a balance to our roles and I only wished to honour the commitment that he had lately made to me.

 

Of course he would protest, I would not expect any less knowing his character as I now did, but I pressed my case and he relented, on condition I would allow him to purchase a token gift instead. On that I agreed, not knowing then the extent of his scheme.

 

The streets were crowded that day for the weather was fine, and we walked a little at first to take the air which I had not seen much of in my confinement. To my nose it stank, the noxious scents of the fish market by the river drifting up upon the mid-day tide, and a pervading smell of rot and decay overlaying all. It was a far cry from the rolling heather moorlands of my home in Rossendale, and summer days spent by the sea at Morecombe bay, but I would not regret, for every wrong step I had made upon my path had brought me here.

 

It was strange to me now that we must keep our distance, walking as befitted two young gentlemen at a respectful step apart, striding with purpose towards our destination. But I bore it, and we took a turn around St James’s Square at first and from there to Pall Mall where carriages aplenty stood vying for custom. Our driver raised a brow as John, forgetting himself for a time held the door wide for me to climb inside. It was not done to act with such chivalrous attention to one of your own sex and he checked himself, giving me a playful shove instead which near sent me sprawling up the steps but made the man laugh at our horseplay and calmed his suspicions aswell. John climbed in beside me and the sleek black horse moved off into the cobbled road.

 

“We must take more care”, I said, trying my best to sound stern, scowling as I brushed at the greyish smears that my fall had caused, and had spoilt my last pair of clean stockings, “Though Mrs Davis will be thrilled at the extra money she can squeeze from us for our laundry bill”.

 

“You fuss like an old maid Sherlock, for you would still be those most striking creature in London even though wandered the town dressed in sackcloth”.

 

John bent down to help me anyway, spitting out onto a handkerchief and dabbing at the smear, my skin prickled at the brush of his fingertips as he took off the worst and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.

 

“See, all is well”, he said, “and I would see you look like a dandy before the day is out. I know of a place, it is where my father and I have been fitted for some time now, and the price is reasonable and the quality fine too, but Sherlock”, he faltered, “It is in Covent Garden, although far from Mrs Turner’s. You will not be seen”.

 

For he knew, that even after the documents had been signed that I remained wary of any future association with that place and time, for I felt the taint of it still etched onto my skin. But I stayed silent, and took the last chance we would have before our carriage ride came to an end to sit close to him, and dragging his head down to my own I kissed him roughly, biting upon his lip as I withdrew. His hair looked a fine state by the time I had my way, taking my sweet revenge, although I can assure you by the tumult in his breeches that he was not displeased at the outcome, though we thanked the fates for the length of his waistcoat just the same.

 

We alighted from the carriage at the eastern border of the market place, as far, I was pleased to note from the Turner house as it was possible to be. The houses here on the outskirts were fine, a gentleman’s residence of neat white town houses with black wrought iron railings at the front and a pleasing arbor of plane trees that ran adjacent to each row.

 

John paid the driver and sent him on his way as I stared in wonder at the well- kept shop fronts of the high street, the hand-painted signs in cursive swirls, brightly coloured and inviting. For this I had not seen, so unlike the spare and unadorned premises of a country village, where everyone knew what wares were stocked inside and so none had cause to flaunt their produce in this way. For the butcher a ham or two hung on hooks outside the door was all, and the grocer a cart of vegetables that changed as the changing seasons would warrant, and the baker, well, the delicious and tempting aromas were known for miles around to both locals and strangers alike.

 

The tailor was a small thin fellow, with a balding head who hovered like a little bird as soon as we walked in. He greeted John like a long-lost son, with many shakes of the hand and claps upon the back, marvelling at the turn of his neck and the fine set of his shoulders in the coat that he had purchased there but a few weeks earlier, as he circled around him. John bore it in good humour, the slightly lingering looks and the hand on an arm to admire the fine embroidery but which lingered on that little bit too long.

 

I must confess it made my stomach turn in a most unpleasant manner, that anyone should think it fit to lay their hands upon him in so obvious a way. It was the first prick of jealousy, the first realisation that others would covet what I believed to be mine. But John was quick to explain, seeing my displeasure, that the clothes we sought were for me, his cousin, not him. The tailor then turned his attention to me and exclaimed that I was the most handsome young man he had seen in many a year and it would be his pleasure to fit me out.

 

I am sure it was, for him.

 

I suffered his attentions for two long hours, as he whipped out a measure and man-handled my figure again and again. I truly believe that it was far from necessary to take quite so many measures of my inside leg and to check at least three times as to which side I dressed. It is the left for those who would like to know, not that I see this of any import to anyone other than myself.

 

By the end I was almost dizzy with the effort of standing still on one spot, swaying alarmingly to catch hold of John by the arm. I left my hand there, curled around his sleeve.

 

“Come”, he said to the tailor, “I believe we are done here for now, my cousin has a delicate constitution and you have taxed him enough, it is past time we ate, I trust that you have what you need?”

 

“Yes sir, indeed”, that gentleman said, rising from his knees at last, “I can make these up in six days if that is convenient and have them sent on”.

 

I glared at him and drew myself up to my full height which was not inconsiderable, “I thought perhaps sooner, but if that is the best that can be done I concur, I would not wish to have wasted my time in this way for nought”.

 

My tone was condescending and haughty, I knew, but I was vexed and hot and hungry, and his twittering attentions and wanderings hands had irked me in the extreme. John coughed behind his hand, amused, but hid it well, and surprised too, for he had never before observed how I might change my character in this way on a whim.

 

“My apologies sir, might I offer a half-dozen handkerchiefs in recompense, and perhaps the young gentleman might have need of new stockings also?” the obsequious little fellow added looking pointedly at the smear on my shin.

 

“I thank you for your kind offer, and yes, I will take the stockings now if you please and perhaps a clean handkerchief for my cousin?”

 

“Yes sir, thank you sir…..and how will you settle sir?” He looked between us, and addressed his words to John, but drawing out my own purse I made payment for the whole on my own account with a small discount for the inconvenience he had caused, entirely of my own invention.

 

“By God Sherlock”, John clapped a hand to my shoulder as we left, barking with laughter now that we were finally out of sight, “You are a horror indeed, the poor man was beside himself with your trickery, it would not surprise me if he were to make up a few more items to court your good opinion, for he was much taken with you”, he added with a suggestive wink.

 

I shook my head, “I think you are mistaken, had he touched your arm for much longer then I fear I would have cause to break it , he annoyed me so”.

 

We strolled down the street, now well into the afternoon and growing much cooler as a Northerly breeze began to blow, casting my hair in disarray and causing us to shiver in the sudden cold. I was full of small beer and mutton stew from a tavern John knew of, a short distance from the tailor’s, where we had rested for an hour, and laughed over the revelation of my hidden talents.

 

“Tell me”, he said, a little more serious, “If you possess such skill, why did you never show it till now? to have mastery over the actions of others could have saved you from much of the misfortune you have suffered”.

 

“I am master of nothing, truly”, I answered, as John led the way, “I thought it but a child’s trick which I used to tease the maids when I was small. He was one small man, and you forget the most important part, I had you by my side and that is where I draw my strength and courage. I am weak alone”.

 

John stopped, and looked thoughtful. “You understand much…then how is it that you do not know yourself?”

 

My answer dissolved on my lips as he turned me around, taking hold of my shoulders to guide me. He smiled, “What do you think?” We stood before an emporium at least two shops wide, and there, in the window display lay the most beautiful violin, displayed in a case lined with ebony velvet. It had a spruce top, the back I could see formed from beautifully flamed maple- wood and a fingerboard of the deepest blackest ebony, ending in a perfect scroll. It was exquisite, I imagined the tone, deep and rich, the way the bow would skim across the strings and the wondrous music I could coax from it.

 

“All you need to say is yes”, he said smiling, “and it is yours”.

 

It was too much. My own I had lost when my father’s estate had been seized by the Crown. It had not been so fine as this, being smaller by a quarter and made for a child’s arms only, but I had loved it so. I had told John one night, in that time in the early hours of dawn when sated and steeped in the afterglow of sex, of the music room, and of how I learnt to play there. My mother would sit at the pianoforte and I at her side, and together we would compose our own music to suit whatever passing fancy we chose. Just to hold such a beauty would be gift enough.

 

“You are cruel”, I said, “For how could I walk away from this spot without it in my hand? And you, you had the nerve to call me trickster, when all along you had planned this, letting me believe that you meant only to give a small token while scheming to spend ten times more?”

 

“Ten times?” John laughed hard, and drawing me closer to the window, pointed to a small card in a spidery script tucked into the velvet folds surrounding the instrument. “Three pounds?”, I gasped, “But an instrument by this maker would be worth at least twelve. They must not know what they have”.

 

“And you will not tell them either Sherlock, at least not before you hold it safe in your hands….and don’t you think it should be cared for by one who sees it for what it is and recognises it’s true value?”

 

His look was so intense, for he did not speak only of the violin, he spoke of me aswell, safe in his arms but loved far beyond the measure of my worth I was sure.

 

I tried to hide my delight at the first feel of warm burnished wood in my hands, vibrant and alive with the possibility of a melody unexpressed. I would write it for him, and play, music for his ears and his alone.

 

With the hard, studded case held tightly in my hand we waked back down the high-street in the hope of procuring a carriage for the journey home when my attention was caught by a display of ladies bonnets and intricately embroidered tablecloths and linen napkins. John frowned as I stopped short and looked up at the blue painted sign above the door.

 

‘Hudson’s Millinery est 1741’.

 

I could not help my own curiosity, and against my better judgement I put a hand to my brow to shield my eyes from the reflection in the glass and peered inside. A group of four ladies sat at work round a large oval table, tacking and stitching diligently. They were all young and pretty, dressed in fine gowns brightly coloured with delicate lace trim. I had seen my mother wear much the same on occasion, but not for the everyday as they gave every appearance of a group of debutantes decked out for a society ball.

 

“Sherlock?”, John hissed at my shoulder, “What is it?”

 

I did not answer, but moved to the door, opened it and stepped inside. The bell above the lintel jingled madly, and I motioned to John to join me from where he stood, confused on the pavement, jostled a little by the movement of pedestrians walking back from the direction of the market in the late afternoon.

 

The girls at the table sat still at their work, casting us only a passing glance and John a little more I fancied, and we stood there rather awkwardly till a well turned-out lady in her fifties at least appeared from a door to the right. She was small in appearance with soft brown waves of hair that framed a small face, fined boned and pretty in appearance. In her younger days she would have been a rare beauty indeed, delicate and trim of figure with a pleasing smile that made her green eyes sparkle like jewels.

 

This was most unexpected, for I knew the nature of this place, for all appearance respectable while concealing the depravities that I’m sure were in progress within. It was a bawdy house, the very same that Irene had spoken of and in which she plyed her trade.

 

“Can I help young sir?” she asked, “Did you have something particular in mind?” she held out her hand in a sweeping gesture pointing out the silks and felts and linens displayed all around. “We can make up most anything to your very own design if you wish it, you have only to tell me what it is that your young lady likes most….or your mother perchance?”

 

She frowned, confused by my narrowed eyes and lack of response as my eyes swept around, not looking at the wares, but at the doors, a perplexing amount it seemed, for such a small room, six in all, and the pictures too, small and square, each set to the left of a door, all of uniform height and size, but different in appearance. There were trees on one, willow and birch, and another I observed showed a tight coil of sailors rope on a background of black silk. The rest I could not see well enough, but the design had neither logic nor aesthetic to recommend it.

 

The bell behind us rang out again and John stepped out the way as a gentleman came in. He glanced at us, face turning an alarming shade of red at our presence casting furtive looks to a red-haired girl tacking a bonnet with a row of pins in her mouth.

 

“Kitty dear”, Mrs Hudson called out. The girl looked up from her task, and leaving her things strewn wild on the table she rose, walking to the gent and offering her arm, “Fancy goods sir?”, she asked, and he answered with a curt nod, and indicating the door with the willow and birch trees beside it she lead him by us and entered into that mysterious chamber beyond.

 

The door closed and we were again under the gaze of the lady I assumed to be the proprietress, Mrs Hudson.

 

“I wish to speak with Irene if I may?” I asked all politeness now, for I knew I could be charming should the occasion warrant the effort.

 

She smiled, “Oh my dear, don’t you think a sweet country girl would be more to your liking? Irene is a beauty but I feel too much of a temptress for your tastes”.

 

“ I fear you know nothing of my tastes madam, nor would ever have the means to tempt them”.

 

She looked me over with a much more careful eye and caught the gaze of John behind me, silent and perplexed at the exchange.

 

“Oh my dear”, she laughed, high and ringing with mirth, “please forgive me of course, I should have known, silly old dame that I am, you must be Sherlock, Irene spoke of you and I was most upset that she cast you off on the wretched old harpy Mrs Turner. My poor boy!”. She drew her clenched hands up before her face and shook her head in silent reflection. “But I see”, she went on, “that fortune has favoured you in your choice of companion, you are like the sun and moon to each other I can see that now….Irene should be available soon if you still wish to speak with her?”

 

I felt John step up beside me, and taking my arm he pulled me away so that he might speak into my ear. “Sherlock, come away now”, he whispered urgently, “seeing her here can only be to your disadvantage. She betrayed you most horribly and is in league or was, with Mrs Turner and may yet have cause to wish you harm. Her mistress seems honourable enough, but you must think upon their business and take care”.

 

He had the right of it. It would serve no good to speak with her here, or in any place really. I could not blame John for bringing me here to this part of town, for how was he to have known that which I hadn’t known myself, that she was here in this place all along?

 

And so I resolved to go. Mrs Hudson took her leave and assured me that if I should want she would not tell Irene of my ever being there. I did not know if the words rang true, for what did she owe me, a stranger, a gauche young boy from the country with but one protector and still fewer friends? But as I left she called to me and drawing me away from John a little said if ever I should find myself in trouble I could always be sure of a place here with her.

 

Was she being kind, worried that my lover would cast me off when the novelty and romance had worn thin? Or did she have designs as Mrs Turner had, and saw in my figure and face a way to make coin and take advantage of my precarious situation at some future date ?

 

Only time would tell and tell it would, for I had not yet seen the last of this place.


	11. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with a friend bring a new acquaintance into their lives and gives Sherlock cause to fear for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short(ish?) chapter (is 4k short?) to set things up for future installments - hang in tight cause shit's about to go down!!
> 
> I'm deviating from the plot of the original text for now - for reasons that will soon become clear!

I stood before the window and basked in the glow of the early evening sun, yet warm on my skin from the last sweet remnants of the fine spring day. The sash was pulled open to its fullest height and a breeze like a gentle caress played through my hair and caused my shirt to billow lightly about my naked skin. I stood unseeing, bewitched by the sweet strains of the melody which filled the air as I played, eyes closed against the glare as the light struck glass and swaying slightly, lost in a world of my very own construction where none would ever reach me save him.

 

He watched, that I knew, every motion of my arms, the right that swept with light even strokes, the left arm bent in an attitude, wrist curved outward and fingers curling to meet catgut strings pulled tight, suspended over ebony, awaiting the press of a fingertip against it. My neck was tilted to the left, the white skin exposed in the most submissive of gestures, as my chin pressed lightly to the rest and the bone of my clavicle ached with the pressure of the wood against it, but I bore the discomfort for it was pain with a purpose. And still I could not bear it to end, drawing out the last sweet strains of the music I had composed for him, _glissando, adagio, pianissimo_ , fading softly away on the final downward stroke and thence into nothingness.

 

My hands fell away to my sides and I felt him there, sweet breath against the back of my neck and an arm that curled lightly about the dip of my waist, drawing me gently to him.

 

“Such beauty is worth more than a rich man’s vaults”, he said, sliding a hand beneath the linen of my shirt to rest there flush against my abdomen, warm and dry, as he pressed up against me from behind, “and all for me I fancy. Is it not so?”

 

“Do you speak of the music? I answered, “Or does this beauty you speak of have a different cause?”

 

He laughed, and I felt that also, in the sweetest vibrations that ran along my back. “In the talent to tease you are unmatched”, he said, “and I cannot but help to imagine the things you may do with those violinists hands if you have the inclination, but alas”, he sighed and drew away, “we have an engagement that we must make ready for… the carriage will call at eight”.

 

I put down the instrument, reverently placed in its bed of soft velvet in slow careful movements, then rounded on him with a spin of my heel to knock him flat upon the bed with one sharp shove with the heel of my hands. He stumbled, arms flailing madly to grasp at air as he went down, bouncing a little on the spring of the mattress with an incredulous gasp.

 

“Do not pout so Sherlock”, he said, when once he had caught his breath, as I climbed upon his sprawled-out form and lay myself along the length of him, “Charles has shown us much favour of late and the main of it at his own behest. You only wish to have your wicked way, that I know, and I would not deny you on any account…so, can we say it shall suffer but a small delay this night?”

 

“It irks”, I snapped, stealing a kiss to his brow in lieu, “That we should pander to such intolerable attempts to play cupid week upon week, he knows how things stand between us, you and I, but still he persists in his quest to throw more new and pretty acquaintances into your path”.

 

“Not just I…and I am sure he only does so for proprieties sake, two young men of our age should be seen to show at least a passing interest in the delights of the female form in the expectation of future betrothal”.

 

I ripped off my shirt with scorn, setting my curls askew, the colour raised and blazing with anger across my chest. Anger at myself, anger at Charles and anger at the injustice of a world that would deny me my lover in plain sight, condemned as something to be hid and scorned.

 

“What do I want with marriage….or do you for that matter?” I railed, and stomped about the room shedding my clothes as I went, until I stood full naked by the foot of the bed as he looked on, a soft sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

 

“You know I would not leave you, not for any pretty young maid…nothing compares you must know that? Tell me you know that or I cannot be happy, truly I cannot…please Sherlock”. He crawled across the bed towards me and caught me up again, pitching me forward, and so we fell back down and I lay as he pinned me a wrist each side of my head and smothered my body with kiss after kiss, laying a burning, wet trail.

 

“Fool, that you would think I did not worship you as I do”, I whispered softly to the air, for he was the universe to me, in truth, and all that was not him was as nothing.

 

And so it had been for all the time we had been together, as the days had turned swiftly to weeks and months, and the cool chill of late winter gave way to the promise of warm summer days. My happiness only grew through this time, long hours spent in each other’s company doing little to dampen our desire or mutual regard for one another with as many hours spent laid down all sticky and sweat-slick, as ever was spent in the company of others.

 

I had his cock most every night, and though it would pain me to wait a while longer for my feast, I grudgingly complied.

 

“Fine”, I huffed, and squirmed out from beneath him with a final defiant, buck of my hips, “I will endure his false platitudes and abominable fare, and the fawning, simpering advances of those counterfeit virgins at his table….for your sake”, I added, as he glowered at the vehemence of my rudeness and ingratitude.

 

For in truth my tirade was unjust. I had much to be grateful for regarding our mutual friend Charles, an admirable man indeed who had offered to us his loyalty and expertise in making discreet enquiries as to the possible whereabouts of my brother, a service which he rendered pro bono in addition to the service he had lately performed for me.

 

And so we were bound for Holburn, a regular twice-weekly engagement to dine as befitted young gentlemen lately out in society, while the fiction remained to the rest of his guests that I was a cousin come down from the country. On this I gave little cause for doubt, and with diligence and resolve I did much to refine what I believed to be the rusticity of my accent, manners and deportment so determined was I to be worthy of the place that I held in John’s heart. The success of my endeavour I perceived in the ease with which we moved amongst those of John’s circle, the sons of rich merchants and bankers, minor nobility, men of letters and politics, while he saw fit to introduce me to all the diversions the town had to offer, plays and opera’s and masquerades, and we were admired, looked upon as desirable, elegant and poised by both male and female alike.

 

And here lay the source of my disquiet. We could not be open, and every wench in London it seemed was at pains to win his regard. For myself I cared not, let them think me a cad or an arrogant prig, for hell would freeze before I would suffer any one of them to lay a hand upon him.

 

A humble meal with a friend should be harmless should it not?

 

Free from such schemes and machinations of the female sex?

 

Think again, for ever do they set their traps to tangle the unwary man within.

 

After much sweet assurance of future delights on his part on that particular Thursday in the month of May, we found ourselves, John and I, rapping smartly on the door for admittance. The air was warm yet, and the last rays of the early summer sun still heated our backs as we waited there, my lips tingled yet from the numerous whiskery kisses received on our journey and the kerchief at John’s neck concealed a most startling bruise that I had placed there. The breeze caught the edge and raised it, exposing the mark I had made and I turned to him and gestured that he secure the silk a little more.

 

“You would have us disgraced in such polite company I am sure”, he said in fondness as the door was opened to admit us. It was Charles himself, the maid being busy with the preparations for his guests, still clothed in a gown of heavy dark twill faded to a stormy grey from many a launder, the uniform of his calling.

 

“My apologies”, he said, breathless from a run down the stairs, “the law is a fickle mistress, and my master a bastard and so you find me at a disadvantage….Sherlock, John…”, he shook our hands heartily, gripped by fingers wide and stocky as the rest of him, his hair a riot of dishwater curls thrown askew by the horsehair wig he wore habitually when in court. But he was amiable company nonetheless, and what he lacked in sartorial charms he would amply make up for in wit and good humour. “We have an addition to our party this evening” he said, blustering and breathless as we made our way up the steep stairs to his rooms, “my aunt has brought her young companion, a Miss Morstan…forgive if I presume you have not yet made her acquaintance?”

 

“We have not yet the pleasure Charles, no”, said John with a quick glance towards me as we followed at a leisurely pace behind, mindful that once in company we must conceal our mutual regard once more as we mounted the summit and stepped into the rooms beyond.

 

It was as I had believed, a new filly to parade before the stud.

 

A harried young maid took our hats and coats, and I for one was glad to be relieved of them, my shirt adhering to my back with a faint sheen of sweat from the residual warmth of the day. But the rooms at least proved cool and airy, the sashes pulled up to take advantage of the breeze, drapes billowing like the sails of a ship into the open space. The dining room was laid out in full, the large oak table set for twelve at my reckoning, a large party indeed for mid- week, and there, in the chairs by the fireside sat the portly old dowager and her pretty young charge.

 

Lady Worthington was an aunt on Charles’ fathers side, a wealthy old widow who made it her project at times to act as benefactress to some new and deserving young darling. Miss Morstan was her current pet, and what a fine contrast they presented, one so wide in her taffeta’s and silks, a veritable giantess in the French high-backed chair, with an arse of such size she would surely take it with her when she rose and notice it not. The maiden was but half that size, white-blonde hair coiled prettily at the nape in a simply gown of a honey hue which did much to enhance her fine complexion and eyes of azure blue. She did not sit in deference, but conversed with alacrity, face open and animated at their exchange. Every man’s eyes in the room had been drawn to her and much to my chagrin I found it so in myself, seeing in her quick wit and intelligence to compliment her beauty. The dowager had chosen well, a pretty piece indeed with much more to offer than mere fortune, of which she was amply endowed.

 

As cupid, Lady Worthington had unrivalled success, the architect of many a marriage, whether of convenience, or of unbounded love, who could say?

 

Who am I to judge?

 

Many a man I am sure has trod the weary path to matrimony, lain with his wife to produce an heir and it all be a sham, whilst he fucks his _good friend_ bye the bye. But I would not countenance such a fate for my John, or myself and so resolved to be on my guard.

 

The places were not marked, so we hovered in uncertainty around the table, and waited for directions from our host. Charles was to sit at the head, and I at his right, Miss Morstan sat opposite and John beside her to the left. It could not have gone worse.

 

We sat, and I raised up my eyebrow at John who just smiled and rolled his eyes. I would not even have the illicit thrill of our hands brushing close when we ate, or the press of a thigh as I shifted in my seat. The lady to my right was unknown to me and spoke to her neighbour instead. It suited me well.

 

“Gentlemen”, Charles began addressing John and I, as the maid filled our glasses with wine, “May I introduce to you Miss Mary Elizabeth Morstan of Pondicherry Lodge, she is staying with my aunt for the summer season in town…”

 

“It is a pleasure Miss Morstan,” said John, “for us both”, he added, and cast me an apologetic glance, for he knew how I hated these forced and stilted niceties, which he breezed through with startling ease, whilst I came off as taciturn more often than not. He thought it a kindness, my sweet artless boy. “Is London to your liking? It is diverting is it not?”

 

“The country is so frightfully dull this time of year”, she said, in a voice sweet and musical to the ear, thrilled, I am sure, to have found herself seated with such a handsome young man. My young man I might add. “The offer to come to town was much too exciting to decline…and yes, I find it diverting indeed”. She smiled, eyes cast down more in mischief I felt, than in deference, with a slight inclination of the head to one side, as she looked for his reaction. He blushed, in that pretty way that I knew so well and it incensed me that she should inspire this and believed that this had been her design.

 

A vixen concealed in the garb of a maid, small of stature and delicate featured with a beauty unsullied by unnatural enhancement she was everything sweet and pretty and perfect. I wished to despise her but she only made me nervous, as only a rival for his affections could as a socially acceptable mate.

 

“Sherlock hails from the country too”, John said, in an attempt to draw me in and deflect her attention away from him, for he knew me too well, insecurity the weakness I had failed to cast off in our time together despite the attentions he gave.

 

“Hampshire is but barely out of town, and such a far cry from Lancashire, you could hardly compare the two”, I returned, a little too sharply perhaps, which was more of the insult to John than had been my intent as Mary looked between us with interest. His eyes flashed in warning, but not at my harsh words. Mary had a keen intelligence and may not be as innocent of our position as I would have preferred.

 

For this, would we have been better served to reject the acquaintance outright?

 

It would have been abominably rude, and though I could bear that, I knew John could not.

 

“Outside of Winchester there is little indeed”, she turned away from me to address him in my stead, confounded by my air of hostility which I had so poorly concealed, “I look forward to every entertainment that town has to offer…tell me, will you be at the next masquerade?”

 

“If Sherlock wishes it”. John conceded with a smile, and I baulked at the touch of her hand upon his arm, the hateful coquette. Never had I been more glad for the maid, who at that moment came round to clear the plates for desert. Her hand was removed with a twitch of his arm and she drew back, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

 

“Oh....do you come as a pair? How sweet!...And all the young ladies in the room will be hoping to engage you for a dance, no doubt…I must set my card down early in that case, if you attend”.

 

I looked away, as much to escape her penetrating gaze, and supped far too much wine than was good for me, snatching up the bottle myself to pour out again. John frowned a little, the slightest of looks to show he had noticed, but said naught, for my moods were known for their inconstancy. I took it on trust that he would know and understand the cause of my displeasure.

 

“Sherlock”, Charles called, with a tap on my arm to draw my attention as desert was served, “I may have news, a new development at least which may prove of great value in time”. I set my wine down, intrigued, my roiling stomach and the alcohol setting my head aspin as I had eaten little yet, and glad of the distraction I gave him my fullest attention as he went on, eyes shining with cheer, “I came upon a man, a specialist of sorts you might say, who has proven more than useful in the successful prosecution of some criminal cases…I took the liberty of laying out to him your familial situation, he found it most curious…will you meet with him?”

 

This arrested John’s attention back to me, I was pleased to find, and he leant in closer, the brush of his leg against mine beneath the table causing my skin to burst afire. I supped anew to quell the dryness in my throat.

 

“He is a colleague?”, I asked, voice strained, as I set my glass down, and tried to discern if others at the table had been privy to his words. All eyes were on plates or guests, the idle hum of mindless chatter regarding various aspects of their wealth and privilege. I cared for none of it, but dealings with the law in whatever regard would be noted in this circle and commented upon and so I motioned for him to quiet his voice, for we were not at the Old Bailey now.

 

“Indeed no…”, he went on _sotto voce_ , “he is a promising young detective of the bow street runners, a cunning intelligence possessed of a natural affinity for the ways of the criminal mind. Your case is not the first he has heard the like of, and with an ear to streets he may yet have success at this task.His name is Constable G. Lestrade, a man of five and twenty, a resident of Cheapside who is of unimpeachable character I can assure you, much more than a common thief-taker…and quite discreet”.

 

Our friendship with Charles notwithstanding, this did not sit easy, who was to say this Lestrade would not expose us if he found me out in due course and thence make it known? I would not then be welcome in any polite circles and John may cast me off rather than keep a whore or else risk conviction for sodomy. There would be need to discern his character first and in my power to do so, that at least I could trust. And though I yearned to hear more at this time, I cursed at Charles that he could not hold his tongue a little longer until we were alone. I stabbed at my food, a warm suet pudding too heavy for my liking, and smashed it to a crumbling mess in the bowl, my appetite gone.

 

“How exciting!...A mystery!”, said Mary, interrupting, my apprehensions realised, to my annoyance. I did not want her involved in my business and harsh words would serve me badly delivered in company, especially to a lady. But still, I could not let this pass, even at the press of a heel to my toe in warning.

 

“Tell me Miss Morstan, the only mystery I perceive is why one so pretty has not yet found true happiness, there are suitors aplenty in town and your benefactress is famed for her skill at the love-match, would you be the first to deny her that pleasure?”

 

She looked amused at my presumption, but it was fair, she being at least one and twenty by my reckoning, and besides, I had no wish to court her good opinion and wished her gone.

 

“I have no need to accept an offer made in haste, prompted only by the temptation of my fortune, I am willing to wait for a true match of love and of equals, a man who would love me for my own sake and not for material gain”.

 

“You would deny your own charms?”

 

“Perhaps”, she smiled, “As do you I think”.

 

“I am but sixteen and have nothing to offer a wife, and I would not seek validation through marriage on any account”.

 

“Indeed? Then you will break many a heart this season I fear….I shall look forward to our next meeting”.

 

She turned away, dropping a slight curtsey to John before she left, beckoned by her ladyship to join the other ladies in the parlour while the men retired to the study to drink port and smoke cigars. I cared for neither, too young for such pursuits and felt every single year that I lacked as I sat, most disgruntled, amidst such boisterous, masculine company.

 

John approached me glass in hand and stood before my chair disconsolate. He swallowed the dregs of ruby liquid and set it down upon the mantel at his side with a sigh.

 

“Come”, he said, “You are vexed, I can tell, tired and hungry also, for you scarce ate a bite that I observed. I have called for the carriage, we will go home, call for supper and not speak of this again tonight”.

 

If we had been alone he would have held out his hand, pulled me to my feet and drawn me into his arms to sweeten those words with a kiss, but I could only rise alone as he waited, and taking our leave of the host we walked out, and climbed into the waiting carriage.

 

I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes as we moved off, weary of the nights revelations and perturbed by my own responses to them, the unfounded jealousies, the promise of mysteries resolved, and fear for what the future might bring on both those accounts.

 

I was glad to be alone again, as the carriage pulled up at the roadside and we stumbled , only a little the worse for drink, up the stairs to our door. And soon he laid my fears to rest, for if ever proof were needed of his unshaken constancy towards me he gave it that night, as we laid together, stripped and panting in his bed, sharing soft languid kisses as the mark of our passion dried upon our skin in the aftermath, all thoughts of Mary forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In the 18th century, violins didn't have chin, or shoulder rests as they do today, so Sherlock's chin would have rested on the bare wood of the instrument to left of center, the underside resting on the clavicle.  
> \- As a violinist myself, who never invested in a shoulder rest I can attest to how bloody uncomfortable this is, especially if you're quite bony in that area as I am (and Sherlock is).
> 
> \- At balls/dances in the 18th century, in order to ask a lady to dance or to converse with her, a gentleman first had to be acquainted or formally introduced to her, so the purpose of the formal dinner engagement is if/when the boys meet Mary again, they need no further introduction.
> 
> \- The Bow Street Runners were founded in 1742 by Henry Fielding, a British Magistrate and author and playwright (I highly recommend 'Tom Jones'). The title was a nickname given to them by the public. They heralded the beginning of the modern, professional police force and were a group of constables and ex-constables who were paid a retainer to locate and arrest serious offenders. (source www.londonlives.org) - this is why I have given Lestrade the rank of Constable rather than his customary Inspector.


	12. Love And Other Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is friend and who is foe? - The Masquerade ball is a dangerous place indeed.
> 
> This chapter took a turn that I wasn't expecting, but here it is, a little later but a little longer than planned!

 

 

“No, no, _no!_ You’re doing it _wrong!_ Here, let me show you the _right_ way”.

 

I huffed in annoyance and pushed John out of the way, and standing in his place I took up Sarah in his stead, one hand at her waist and my left arm extended my hand held in hers. John shook his head, amused, and moved to the bed where he climbed up upon the edge to watch us, cross-legged atop the covers.

 

“You move like a plodding horse John….see?...You glide, use your hips, keep your back straight and shoulders set…guide the lady back with confidence and for god’s sake don’t step on her foot!”

 

I hummed as we moved around the room, a slow graceful waltz at a tempo quite manageable for the novice to master to show what I wished him to improve upon, picking up speed as I went along. The chaise was pushed back to the wall by the dresser and the rug rolled back to expose the smoothness of the floor below in an adequate impression of a ballroom. It was mid-afternoon, Mrs Davis was taking tea with a neighbour and not expected to be back within the hour.

 

We were practising for the masquerade that night, and Sarah the maid had enlisted her help in her mistress’s absence, for we both were in agreement that John’s dance skills were lacking, and the ladies of London would be suitably appalled at such a mediocre display.

 

“I could sit that dance out could I not? An opportune moment for a turn in the gardens perhaps, or to take some refreshment….or find an altogether different way to be entertained…”

 

Sarah dissolved into a peal of shrill laughter at his words, knowing full well what he meant by them, it amused him to tease me this way, a kiss or a touch when eyes were averted were now a thrilling addition to our social engagements.

 

It hadn’t been long before the maid found us out, as she came one morning to lay a fresh fire in the grate, she had happened upon us still deep in slumber, lying chest to back and undeniably naked in my bed, John’s arm curled over my body and his knee pressed full between my thighs. I had startled awake at the sound of the coal scuttle as it clanged against the open grate. John had stirred as I clutched the covers to my chest and half-sleeping had caressed the back of my neck squirming gently against my arse, not yet come to full awareness.

 

“Begging your pardon young sirs” she had said, and my eyes shot wide as she bobbed a quick curtsy and scuttled back out of the room again as fast as she could go, whilst I lay in a state of extreme mortification and growing arousal at the proud erect cock pressing at the crease of my thigh. Later that day she had ventured to return and pleaded her assurances that our secret would be most safe with her, for she cared not a jot how we chose to spend our nights together and had seen much worse from the other residents.

 

The gent who lived below us, Mr Anderson had already pressed his suit with her and always sought to grope her breasts whenever he happened upon her. One terrible evening she had taken up his supper and found the door locked behind her as she bent to stoke the fire. His proposition was to have her in his bed, along with his mistress, a French actress with a taste for the female form herself. He had not been so keen to press his luck however, when staring down twelve inches of red-hot steel she’d left heating in the open fire, and whipped into her hand to hover mere inches from his eye. “I’ll brand you like a farmyard beast if you will not let me pass”, she had said, and he had relented most promptly, with a snivelling obsequious apology for the misunderstanding, as he called it.

 

She felt quite safe with us you see, with the knowledge that we would never seek to take advantage in that way, for despite the reputation and designs of her mistress she was yet a maid, with a sweetheart, the young lad who delivered the coal twice per week and to whom she was secretly betrothed.

 

“You’re not doin’ no harm”, she had said, to calm my fears, “At least you’re not out getting some poor young girl with child, or spreading your muck around those Covent Garden whores…there’s not much harm you can do to each other now is there, what with you both havin’ the same bits an all”.

 

I smiled as best I could and held my tongue, for her good opinion could be lost if she knew of the truth, of where I had come from.

 

“You worry too much”, John said, when we were alone, “You never were a whore Sherlock, not truly, for I am the first and the only that you ever had”.

 

“Or ever will”

 

John jumped off the bed and approached me, tired of watching the sport and yet having no part, and setting his hands at my waist from behind he pulled me back and spun me round to face him wrenching me from the arms of my pretty young partner to crash our bodies together with intent. Sarah flopped down on the chaise at her side and laughed at my indignant cries, when in parody John twirled and spun and cavorted about the room, I, cast in the roll of the maid, condemned but to follow his farcical attempt. Exhausted and breathless with laughter, we fell back upon the bed and Sarah stirred, brushing off her skirts and setting her cap to rights. She cleared her throat to be heard, for we were lost now, as I melted into the touch of his hand against my cheek, gazing into eyes of an unfathomable blue depth.

 

“Shall I draw you a bath now sirs? It may yet be light but the hour is growing late and the two of you together take more time to ready yourselves than many a fine I have known”.

 

“That would be wonderful Sarah…I thank you”, murmured John.

 

“Will you be wanting just the one sirs?”

 

“Yes, just the one”.

 

John smiled into my skin and buried his head in the crook of my neck, nestled within a bed of curls and breathing damply, a chance to catch our breaths before the madness of the night would unfold. I closed my eyes and felt my heart stutter within my chest as he dared to kiss me, the door to the closet ajar, gently insisting with the press of his lips until I relented and parting my own let him take what he sought. It felt like drowning, falling, as it always did, sharing the same heated air a slide of slippery tongues, lips wet and slick, the prelude to such erotic delights as we could scarce indulge here in the presence of the maid. I placed a warning hand against his chest and he slowed, kissing soft, chaste pecks on my mouth and cheeks held gently in his hands. He pulled himself away with great reluctance and sat up, scrubbing his hands across his face to chase away the dreamy languor which had pervaded his being and mine also, and I rose then too, lest we embarrass ourselves further and waited with impatience while the bath was drawn, not full as Sarah now knew, as two full-grown bodies, though slight and well-formed are apt to make the water slosh and spill upon the floor at the slightest provocation.

 

My clothes for the night were laid out on my bed in our adjoining chamber, and I hastened to look at them again. For a ball such as this, the dress could be elaborate but we had chosen to remain quite reserved, elegant in cut and conservative in colour. There would be spectacle enough at such an event, we add no wish to add to it. My new coat and waistcoat appeared as black at the first, the fine silk imbued with a lustrous sheen like the wing of a raven, the colours shifting and changing before the naked eye to deep greens, blues and purples once exposed to the light. The breeches and stockings were of a similar hue, more of the flat black of onyx to compliment the whole, the shoes my own for comforts sake. The mask I had left to John’s keen eye, for he would not show me, and had vowed to keep it hidden, with his own until the opportune moment, a surprise, only to be revealed once fully dressed and ready to depart.

 

John strolled in, shedding clothes as he came. “Come now”, he said, as his drawers slid down to the floor to reveal the strong, masculine planes of his body, fully naked and confident before me, “The water grows cold as you stand there and stare, you will look perfect as always and I shall be mad with jealousy before the night is out, for all those wishing to steal you from me”.

 

He took my hand, and led me to the tub, and bid me stay still whilst he undressed me like a child, each item draped on a small wooden stool at the side. Then he clambered over the edge hissing at the first touch of a toe to the water, a little too hot for true comfort, told by steam rising up from the surface. A moment’s hesitation and he took the plunge, submerging his limbs to slip down into the enveloping heat with a contented sigh. I followed, a little more ungainly in the arrangement of my limbs, trying to fold back into myself, gangly knees and elbows and shins all vying for room, feet sliding against the burnished copper. John set his hands at my hips to guide me down, in our customary way, he behind, legs spread wide, I in front with my back to his chest, slid down so that my head nestled gently against his shoulder, legs bent at the knee to fit. He curled his arms around my chest and we lay for a short time, basking in the soothing heat.

 

“Tell me again of how it shall go tonight”, I asked, as John reached out for the soap on a shelf by our side and I fished between my legs in the water for the washcloth.

 

“It is the biggest event of the calendar year, besting even the winter ball, but the atmosphere less stiff and formal, more akin to the balls of Paris or Vienna, and everyone of note will be there, the King himself was rumoured to attend last year”.

 

“Just a rumour?”

 

“You forget about the masks Sherlock…you can be who you want to be, morality redefined for an evening…I could kiss you as a lover and none would think ill…they would applaud us for our sport most likely or it may pass ignored…but be on your guard, there are many whose object will be to take liberties with the unwary”.

 

He took the cloth from my hand and rubbed the soap with vigour upon it, and pushing me forward gently he drew it across my back in deep circular motions. He continued for a while, the roughness tempered by the smooth slide as I raised my arms in turn for him to wash under, and I settled back again, his arms curling round to my front to scrub and scrape down my chest, skin pinked from the heat of the water and the sureness of his touch. He reached lower, and at the first brush of the cloth against my cock I cried out, my hips moving now of their own volition as he continued on, running up the length of me, swirling back down and under to my bollocks, and catching my arse with his free hand as I rose, he kept me, suspended, held up by the water beneath me, and his palm, he drew the rough material clear up the crack of my arse. It made me jump and quiver, the water splashing as I arched myself back, and he laughed and released me, handing over the soap and cloth so that he may take is turn.

 

“You are wicked John Watson”, I pouted at the loss.

 

We twisted and turned in the water till our positions had been reversed and I started on my trail, just as he had minutes before, my hard cock pressed to the base of his spine as I worked.

 

“You know full well what you do to me and think it sport to deny me…have you ever been such seducer of men? Who taught you such scurrilous tricks?”

 

“It is a bath my love, nothing more…but let me tell you of my first and then you may decide, as to who was the seducer and who was seduced…He was an army captain”, he began, “In a regiment serving in India, and due soon to return. I met him in a tavern, I was there with some friends at the time, drinking ale and listening to their lewd, boisterous talk about the barmaids, which one they would fuck and the like…it stirred me not this time, but his cock did. I could see it, pressing against his breeches as he stared at me. He supped with a friend, but when I rose to take some air and relieve myself, with bare a nod in his direction he rose likewise and followed me out….”.

 

“It was you? You were the one who asked…an older man?”

 

“Indeed…would it not be better to learn of these things from a master, one who knows what he is about? I was curious, how it would taste, how it would feel, to give yourself over like that to the bestial urge for a cock, lodged deep inside…”

 

“Did you like it…that first time?” I was thinking of myself, how I’d failed at the first, too tense and timid it had hurt me most fiercely, but the second time…Oh the second time….my whole being tingled at the thought of it, the pleasure that was everything, that I scarce could live without.

 

“He was most gentle, and although I had lain with at least a dozen girls he knew he was the first man to have me….But yes, I liked it better from the first, as I knew I would…does that surprise you, that a young man should know his own mind and seek to have it?”

 

“Not on your account…you have proved that…you plucked me from a brothel after one sweet kiss, and for that, I would have followed you anywhere”.

 

“And so you did”, he laughed.

"Did you meet again after that?”

 

“Twice more. He taught me how to bugger a man without causing harm…and the time after that was the eve of his departure…he fucked me in Regent’s Park against an oak tree, I had scratches up my arms from the roughness of the bark…I believe he is a major now, I never saw him again after that”.

 

“You were more the whore than I ever was, fine clothes or no”.

 

“Yes, I do believe I was….but no matter, I am yours now to do with as you will”.

 

He shifted in the water and I dropped the cloth again, droplets ran in rivulets down his skin as he turned full around and knelt before me, skin glistening and wet. He placed two hands beneath my armpits to pull me up too, sloshing and splashing as we balanced against one another, my hands at his waist and his at my shoulders. We would have done better to step out of the tub, the cool of the air on damp flesh enough to make me shiver, but I leaned towards him, and met lips soft and warm, and plump with arousal, eagerly meeting my own with a growl. I slid my right hand from about his waist and found the hot, hard shaft of him prodding at my stomach, and taking it up with my own, I pressed our flesh together in a firm, sure grip, as much as I could manage with two, above all such a beast as his and began to move, slipping within the curl of my hand.

 

“I never sought to tease”, he said, “I need you, my god how I need you so much”.

 

“John…my John”, I breathed into his mouth, and he pressed a hand to the back of my neck to crush out lips so hard that I gasped at the pain of it, and felt my teeth catch, tasting his blood on my tongue.

 

He seemed not to care, and covering my hand with his own we twisted and pulled together, sticky and wet with our mutual release. He dropped his head to my shoulder then, and bucked, frantic and intense, liquid slapping around our thighs in agitation as he spurted thick and hot against my skin. The feel of it, dripping slowly from my chest, the scent of his sex on my body pulled me after him and I clung to him, shuddering in ecstasy and relief as the tension drained from my body, sucking in air to still my pounding heart. I felt the warm press of a cloth at my body then, slick with soap to cleanse us both again.

 

“There…now we are fit to dress again”. He stepped over the side as I sank down again, catching up a towel, and throwing it down with a laugh again, “Sherlock, get out, for your skin will look like a withered old prune…perhaps I should have waited…it was too much”.

 

“No”, I stammered, disordered still, “Best now before we dress for the ball”.

 

He handed me out with an arm about my back, bending for the towel at his feet and returning to dry me, the softness and warmth, skimming across my skin in soothing sweeps as gentle as a caress.

 

How did I ever find one such as him who would worship me this way?

 

I would be proud to walk on his arm this night, the only chance we may ever have to be open with each other in a public space. The frisson was undeniable, for others to see us together and to wonder, is it part of the game, the deceit of the masquerade? Or is it truth? And to look in their eyes as they imagine us together, naked and fucking in the dark. I pitied them their commonplace existence, these strangers I had yet to meet.

 

~*~

 

He took my breath away, in his coat of golden silk, the lustre setting his skin aglow in the flicker of the evening candlelight. I entered the room and sat shyly on his bed, waiting as he opened the drawer of the dresser and took out a thickly wrapped package. He placed it on the covers beside me and untied the strings, folding back the stiff brown paper to reveal two intricate, bespoke masks, each a perfect match for the clothes that we wore. They truly were a thing of beauty, embroidered with the finest satin threads intricately woven with jewels of paste and oyster pearls but simple in design, a contrast to the fine decoration. He beckoned me forward and rising slightly upon his toes he fixed the mask across my face and bid me turn. I held it gently with my fingertips, whilst the ebony ribbons which trailed from each side were tightly secured, hidden in the depths of my curls. I then returned the favour, and though his hair was less abundant than my own, I believe I fashioned it well enough, fluffing up the strands to cover the thin band of gold satin.

 

“There”, he said in satisfaction, as we stood before the looking glass, “The whole of London will wonder who we are before this night is done”.

 

“I do not wish to court attention John”.

 

“You misunderstand…I only wish to say how fine you look, how beautiful…I simply cannot countenance that others do not see what I do, mask or no”.

 

“And you are mistaken…I chose the black in the hope to go unnoticed and enjoy the spectacle”.

 

“Then you have failed most dismally, for you truly look every inch the gentleman”.

 

I would not win the battle that I knew, and so I spoke no more on it. John was in spirits, and remained so as we departed into the night, his heightened state spread like contagion to me also, as we talked of the message that had arrived by courier not an hour before, of a meeting on the following day with Lestrade. That he might have news of my brother made my heart feel light with happiness and longing after six long years without him in my life. I tried not to think that a similar fate as mine may have befallen him, for though he had been of a similar age, he had always been more the adult than the child as the elder son and had done much in the attempt to sway the family fortunes before he had been cast out.

 

“Tell me of your brother”, said John, “Does he look like you? Were you close? Would you know him if you were to see him again? It has been many years now has it not?”

 

“The first has a simple answer… we are no more alike than two strangers and ever have been… to the second, no we were never truly close, I annoyed him immeasurably as he told me so at every opportunity. But I was a precocious child, and only mama had any measure of control over me…so I see now that his words however harsh they had been, were fair. He valued honesty and integrity above all else and that was why my father could never accept his help, for he had none, and it shamed him, shamed us all in the end I suppose for it brought about our ruin”.

 

I trailed off then, unwilling to go any further with this discourse, for fear it would encroach upon the festive mood and dampen the enjoyment of the night yet to come. We were almost there on any account, and I felt my heart race again as the horses slowed and the carriage drew up by the entrance to the Festival Hall.

 

John leapt out first, excited and eager, and to my surprise he turned back to the foot of the steps and held out his arm to hand me down. It gave me pause, and I glanced around warily, but seeing no eyes upon us I took hold and hopped down onto the ground beside him. And so we stood, arm in arm for to world to see, and on any other night, in any other place it may have meant the death of us both, arrest and suspicion and incarceration. Yet not here, not this night.

 

I breathed a sigh as his arm slipped from mine, lingering for a moment to squeeze at my hand in a gesture of love and reassurance, before taking our place in the procession that led to the wide double doors, thrown open to the night. I came to see quite clearly, that in terms of our dress we had been most conservative, our only concession to the unconventional being the elegant masks that concealed our identity. Many others had gone much further than this, and I fully confess to the shock of it, to see men dressed as ladies and ladies as men, full elaborate costumes and finery which made me feel so dull in comparison, in raven black from head to foot.

 

I could not help but stare for I had never seen the like before, the formal dances we’d had occasion to attend had done nought to prepare me for this. There were folk dressed as kings and queens of England, fine Turkish princes and exotic orientals. Soldiers stood with pirates , the goddess Diana with a milkmaid at her side and several incarnations of Harlequin and Punch, the stuff of childish nightmares made real, enough to make you tremble in your bed at night. But still, as plain as we were compared to them, many an eye passed us over as we made our way through to the ballroom, arms brushing lightly together as we walked through this strange and wonderful fantasy world, oddly alluring in all its excess, but perhaps too much for an innocent boy of sixteen to understand.

 

“You will be jostled, take care Sherlock and stay close…do not be afraid to take hold of my hand for there are none to answer to on that account”.

 

John spoke to my ear as we came upon a vestibule, the crowd packed in tight to gain entry to the room beyond. He had schooled me for this, not to startle at the grope of a hand at my arse, to treat with disdain the lascivious looks I might receive and to pull away firmly from any who sought to take liberties and part us from one another, trusting in the heaving mass of bodies to conceal their immoral intent. Such crimes were common in places such as this, committed in a public space where morality had been redefined for the night and might be mistook for a part in the festivities. But still I had not reckoned I would be so afraid, starting at the very first touch I received from a much older lady dressed in the French style with a tumble of cherry-red curls.

 

“What a beauty you are” she whispered low into my ear when brought to a halt once more, “What say you come someplace quiet and sit in my lap for a time?”

 

“I am scarcely a child madam”, I replied in the iciest tone I could muster, “and your lap looks a little well-used for my liking. Might I suggest a soothing bath and lavender beneath your pillow…you look to be in need of a little restorative beauty sleep”.

 

“Insolent brat!” she shrieked, with a noise that assaulted the ears, and she looked from my face to John’s who stood by me stomach shaking and lips pressed to supress the peal of laughter eager to burst out and narrowed her eyes, lips curled in a sneer of disgust, “You must be one of them!” she declared as if this on its own was supposed to make sense, but sure enough she clarified soon after. “An invert!...A damn filthy cock-sucker!…What’s up love? Aint never had a real woman show you how it’s done?”

 

“Go sell it somewhere else”, snapped John, “We don’t buy from sloppy old tarts…and I have eight inches that you sorely lack madam and take great pleasure in sitting on _his_ lap likewise”.

 

John dragged me away with that parting shot to the sound of her incredulous snorts. “She was a whore Sherlock, they flock here in droves…for what is the price of a ticket compared to payment for a fuck or two with some rich, drunken fool?”

 

“But I am none of those things…what did she hope to gain from me?”

 

He sighed, exasperated, “You truly do not see?...Oh Sherlock, whatever would become of you without me? She will rob some stupid half-wit blind and leave him with a dose of the pox afore the night is done, but it shall not be you”.

 

I had been unlucky it seemed to be accosted so soon, for we passed into the ballroom without further incident and John felt it safe to let go of my arm. I could not pretend to be happy at the loss. He caught us some drinks from a waiter with tray balanced precarious upon an upturned palm, and handed me a long crystal flute of champagne which prickled against my tongue as I sipped, and shot bubbles up my nose enough to make me cough. I drained the glass dry in scarcely three mouthfuls. My head span a little, but I chose to dismiss the sensation, taking up two new to replace the old.

 

“Have a care”, said John, as I swayed into his side, “You are a pretty drunk, but the hour is still early and we have yet to dance”.

 

Yes, dance! The thought of swaying in his arms was most appealing. He laughed, and caught my chin, then taking a swig from his glass he pulled my face forward and pressed his lips to my open mouth and allowed the tingling liquid to slide onto my tongue. How exquisite it felt! So much so that I lost myself in that moment, forgot where I stood and chased the taste around his lips with my tongue. Hoots of laughter and cat-calls sounded out around us and I sprang away, face flushed with guilt.

 

“You are reckless”, I gasped.

 

“As are you”, he returned. The devilish smile that made my cock twitch played on his face as we stared at one another, inflamed by our daring and much as I wished to chastise, I could not, only wishing I were brave, so that I might take his mouth again.

 

“They covet you”. His eyes were dark as he moved toward me again, “And I wished them to know you are mine”.

 

“John…”, I began, overcome with desire, but as my hand reached out to him, poised to brush the hair back from his brow, a flash of the brightest red caught my eye and an arm raised to greet me, mistaking my intention, in answer to my own wavering palm.

 

It was Mary.

 

John arched a brow in confusion at my frown, and spun on his heel to wonder at the cause of it, and to my consternation he smiled, wide and genuine, answering her greeting with a wave and a sweeping, theatrical bow. I knew him to be unfailingly polite and amiable to all, though I wished in my heart, most unkindly that he would cut her off with a few harsh words as he had to the hoary old baggage who had propositioned me most impolitely. I wondered if Mary would like to know of the size of his cock, and in whom he loved to stick it, and toyed with the idea for a moment of relating the salient facts most explicitly. However I did not. More’s the pity.

 

Miss Mary Morstan and friend, shining like a cheap, gaudy bauble in a scarlet gown and mask to match, fell like the harbinger of doom upon us and I allowed it, fool that I was. I folded my hands behind my back, standing tall, with my chin thrust out in displeasure. I did not care to pretend, to rejoice in her presence, I wished her to leave most fervently and not under any circumstance to presume to court attention from John. In this, my failure was most decisive.

 

“How splendid are you both!” she gushed, standing much too close to him insinuating herself in my place at his side. “Every lady in the room is abuzz with talk of the two pretty young gentlemen in black and gold, and I knew in an instant that it had to be you…you have both caused quite the stir I assure you”.

 

“And what did they say, these most esteemed dames?” I asked, faux-polite. (That we kissed? That we are lovers? That I am his, as he is mine and you will never have him?)

 

“Oh, only how elegant you are, how fine, how they wished you would ask them to dance so they might speak with you and see what lies beneath the mask you wear”. She smiled at me, and her words seemed most artless, but my heart spoke otherwise of artifice and malign intent. She knew me as her rival though of course she did not speak of it, but John saw none of it, and seemed dazzled by her charm and feminine beauty, enough to make my stomach pitch and roil.

 

“One dance? I’m sure your _cousin_ Sherlock would not mind in the least”, she said holding out her arm to him, emboldened within these surroundings, and why not? Hadn’t I only minutes before revelled in the feel of his tongue in my mouth at this very spot, drenched and tingling with champagne? I wondered if the talk she had heard spoke of that.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked, seeking my consent, and I nodded to him curtly while Mary looked on triumphant and knowing, and her young friend, a timid little thing, hovered at my side in expectation. I rolled my eyes and stuck out my arm to her, not wanting to dance in the least, but not wanting to lose sight of John in this place. I imagined him giddy from the dance and drunk on champagne following after this siren to some dark secluded corner where she would entice him, touch him, give herself over and lift up her skirts, as if she did not know, as if my regard for him meant nothing to her. I could not rise for a woman, but I knew John had done, many times. And though I had faith in his love, I feared this.

 

But I must be fair to my sweet young partner for she danced tolerably well, though my eyes were constantly drawn away from her face to follow the flash of red and gold around the room. I danced long enough for politeness sake, giving her over to a dashing young man in the uniform of a soldier who caused her to blush and stammer, but she went willingly and with relief I retreated to the relative calm at the edge of the floor. I had let him go, and however I might berate myself any other action would have raised more eyebrows and turned more heads than we already had. And if I had observed the flash of victory in her eyes, that she had prised him away from me, I owned it must have been a mere trick of the light and tried to push the torturous thoughts away. And so I glowered at the happy young couple, noting with a scowl that my diligent instruction now served him well. If there ever was a time for him to step upon a foot, why could it not be now? Or a sprain perhaps, a twist of the ankle as their feet entangled, the small toe would not cause her harm if it were broken, just a modicum of pain to sit out the rest of the dance. The turn of my thoughts alarmed me, and resolved to think on it no more, so I left the room in search of more champagne to drown my heightened senses. I had barely gone three paces, halting and stuttering, hampered by the twirling couples when a soft, silky voice which set the hair at my neck on end, purred into my ear from behind.

 

“Oh poor you!”

 

“Irene” I said through clenched teeth, and wondered if the world had come to plague me this night with all I wished to cast aside. She looked damnably beautiful in a gown of jade green, far too fine for a woman of such dubious morality, without another source to her income. She must still do to others as she had done to me. “Still selling souls to the devil I see”.

 

She laughed and shook her head, amused at my presumption but showing no shame and expressing no true denial. A smile played upon her lips as I searched for John in the crowd, annoyed by her intrusion and hating the sickening lurch in my gut when he vanished from sight, and the flutter in my chest when he re-emerged. The dance went on.

 

“I have heard tell of your good fortune, girls, they do talk so, but oh, my darling to be thrown over by your handsome young stud for a pretty blonde brood-mare, all pink-cheeked and virtuous! I heard tell Miss Morstan is eager to settle, not being so very young now. What say you Sherlock? Does your beau suit her well?”

 

But of course. Mrs Hudson may have sworn not to tell, but the rest of her harem had not, and it would not take long for the sisterhood, such as it was, to turn up with the name of John Watson, he and his friends being known in the area.

 

“You know nothing of him, of us”. I tried to keep my voice calm, willed it as I swept another glass from a tray when the waiter swept by, taking it down too fast whilst Irene raised a sardonic eyebrow.

 

“On the contrary” she said, glancing over my shoulder, “Your reputation is growing in town. It is only a matter of time my love before you are seen for what you are…take care”.

 

Her hand curled around my wrist and squeezed, and in that small gesture I saw the Irene of old, my childhood friend, my playmate, and wondered with sadness how we had ever come to this. She had not come here alone, for a finely dressed gentleman, in a style much as my own came upon us, his face still concealed by the mask he wore in delicate blue and silver with eyes that flashed beneath the same. He gave a start when he saw me, a spark of recognition ignited and I stared in momentary consternation that another of my limited acquaintance might have found me in this place. He was not of John’s set, or of Charle’s, older by ten years or more, I had not seen him frequenting St James, Pall Mall or Holburn, and then, by god and then, I knew, my final night in the brothel, the mysterious gent that had sat at my side and teased me for my innocence, the rich and powerful Mr V who Susan had insisted had ‘chosen’ me, a notion which I’d most emphatically rebuffed. And with Irene’s connection to that household, the circle was complete.

 

“Ah, my young friend…we meet again as I said we surely would…I was most disappointed to hear you had flown the coop…you were a great loss…I had such great plans for you and young …Tom? Is it?”

 

“I am no longer for sale sir, nor ever was”.

 

“Yes, so I heard, the kindness of strangers is a wonderful thing, but like it or not, dress it up in pretty words all you want…he bought you, as sure as you are standing there he did, in all your fine garb, playing at being a gentleman…and at a masquerade, how fitting”.

 

The words stung as he had meant them to. I cast around wildly, searching for his face, that one face, my safety and my home, so that I might make mock of them. But there, engrossed in her words and leaning in close, he looked into Mary’s eyes as he had only ever looked in mine and shard of pure ice lanced through my heart. I tore my eyes away and felt my body sway, the champagne coursing through my blood as I fought to stay calm and force myself to look again, to see what was really there and not just what I feared to see, to observe dispassionately.

 

They were gone.

 

I blinked and rubbed my eyes to no avail. The space where they had stood, laughing and panting with exertion was filled with moving bodies lining up for the Scottish Reel. The jaunty strains of the fiddle player could be heard above the din as the crowd murmured with excitement and settled again expectantly. We had practised this dance him and I, leaping about the room in wild abandon as Sarah clapped out the beat and hummed the tune in a sweet high voice so unsuited for the task, the three of us collapsed in laughter upon the floor by the end, while our neighbour made his feelings known most emphatically, as various objects were hurled at the wall that divided our chambers.

 

I pushed past my tormentors, ignoring Irene’s startled cry as the glass she was holding was dashed from her hand to smash on the floor below. Liquid splashed upon my legs and tiny shards of crystal crunched beneath the sole of my shoe as I twisted wildly, looking this way and that for any sign of bright red or gold amongst the throng. I thought I saw, through the door to the vestibule, a dress not unlike the one she had worn, and so I followed swiftly, out into the vastness of the building beyond, down narrow carpeted walkways, through sumptuously decorated rooms, all full of people but none of them the ones I sought. And every timed I slowed, every time I paused to take stock and look about me some looming spectre would seek to take advantage. Men, women, it mattered not. The hands still groped and the fingers still stroked.

 

I faltered in my frantic search, the room in which I had found myself, strangely and quiet and subdued. There were fewer here, huddled in small groups or lounging upon low chaises or mounds of plump cushions upon the floor. The air was sweet and heavy, oddly calming as I breathed it in and felt my racing heart begin to slow and the turmoil in my head to recede and fade. No hands sought to grope me here, barely a head turned my way as I sank to the floor and laid my head against the wall at my back. I could rest here, sleep a while, my body so heavy and tired.

 

Wisps of ghostly smoke drifted towards me, blown by a breeze from a window left open to the night, but no, it was a trick of my mind, for it came from strange pipes, much thinner and longer than the usual, of ivory, not of wood, the bowl of it smooth and luminescent. Opium, my muddled brain supplied as my lids flickered and closed.

 

I should move from this place. I should go. It would be so easy to fall, to stay, to take up a pipe and breathe it into my lungs, to forget about Irene, and Mary and John. I could stay, find a rich man, for in this place they were plentiful and offer up my youth and beauty to his pleasure, forget my past, forget my home, give up my future to the unknown, and accept my fate. Whore. That is what you are. Forever and always, bought and sold.

 

A hand pressed into my shoulder and roused me from a fitful slumber. A small wizened man, hunched in appearance but smiling broadly, gestured to the cushions in the centre of the room. I could only crawl, so heavy and boneless like a post-coital daze, down on all four like a dog I made my way across to take my place. Heavy-lidded eyes blinked owlishly at me through the fuggy haze. Young, old, woman, man the smoke showed no prejudice or preference.

 

The first inhalation burned at my throat and I coughed, but the man placed the stem at my lips once more and nodding he bid me take in some more, and so I did, letting the vapour curl into my lungs, a little unsure where I was and what had brought me here. My skin itched, tiny prickles like a million fire ants crawling across my skin, and a sweat broke out upon my brow, running in a thin trickle down the side of my face to pool in the crook of my neck. John would lick it. Scoop up the liquid on his tongue. John. Who was John? Who was gone. John was gone. Laughter bubbled in my chest as small sure fingers loosened the kerchief around my neck. I could not make sense of it, my waistcoat undone, air on my skin as my chest was exposed. A hand plucked the pipe from my grasp and another pressed me back to the floor. I felt warm lips press onto my own, a tongue that probed for admittance. I complied, opened my mouth to let them in. Who? Who was it? My lids would not open, two hands held them shut, more hands on my body, more lips, tongues, teeth…so many, where had they come from? I gasped, and arched into the touch. Where was I? At home in my bed, fingers tangled in soft blond hair as he trailed soft kisses down my body, his warm palm pressed against my hardening cock. I wanted it….I needed it…

 

Two strong hands grasped beneath my arms and hauled me, bodily to my feet, and the questing hands receded, falling away. A voice shouted loud, very loud, too loud, the sound like knives in my ears horribly real and familiar, reaching through the fog that had addled my brain. A ghost. It could not be. I struggled and writhed with a strength renewed and reeled at a hearty slap across my cheek, the skin stinging and tingling as my eyes streamed with tears. “I’m sorry…so sorry…I didn’t mean it father, I’ll be good now I promise…” I whispered, throat hoarse and raw, I was but a child again, caught once more in places where I’d no right to be, sneaking into father’s study to play at pirates with his long oak desk my ship setting sail to unknown lands.

 

“I am not your father, but by god I should tan your sorry hide…what on earth possessed you?”

 

I blinked in confusion, my head a little clearer from the slap and the cool clear air, leaning heavily into a silvered coat, his arms the only thing that stopped me from falling at his feet. A path cleared for us, as we wound our way through a room near the entrance with wide open doors that led out to a carved stone balcony, blessedly silent and empty. He settled me down on wide, wooden love-seat and knelt between my knees making no complaint of the hard stone below he fastened the buttons of my shirt, and gently tucked it back into the waist of my trousers. For a moment he left again, appearing before me with a pitcher of water and a cup, some of which he poured for me, watching while I drank to his satisfaction, the rest he poured on my head, and I spluttered and gasped in shock at the cold.

 

“Are you done? Fool that you are!” He paced up and down before me, and my eyes unbidden followed every movement, hands clenched behind his back so hard the knuckles turned white and his jaw clenched in anger whilst the water dripped off my chin into my lap. “They would have had you….half naked you were…don’t you know? don’t you realise?...No”, he mumbled, almost to himself, “I never should have left you there…if I’d known it would come to this….he’s just a boy, it will end in heartbreak…it has already begun”.

 

“Sir?” I said, rubbing at my eyes to clear them and shaking my head to release a stream of droplets, wincing at a throbbing pain at my temple. “I give my thanks sir…it would appear you did me a great service…I did not know…”

 

“Indeed”, he cut me dead with a scathing look, “You do not know. I will be blunt then. You will lose him, he will marry, she will bear him children most like, if not this young woman then another as is befitting of a young man of his station. He was never yours to keep sweet child…did you really believe it would be so?” He bent towards me and cupped my chin lightly with his palm, “Your life, this life”, he gestured around us, “is but a fleeting fantasy…he belongs here and you do not. And if he keeps you close, as some friend after they marry, when your youth and beauty fade he will surely find another ripe virgin in your stead to toy with, no matter how pretty your cock is….there”. He released me and stood back, turning to look out into the night in silent contemplation.

 

“You are wrong, he loves me, has told me so, many, many times” my words sounded childish even to my own ears and I faltered, a little uncertain, the drug still clouding my system.

 

“And I’m sure that he thinks that child…he may even mean it…for now”, his voice was soft and kind, full of regret and a sadness I could not comprehend. And where was Irene now? To bring her she must be a favourite of some sort, kept perhaps, under his care and protection as I was with John.

 

“Irene…”I began, “Is she not your sweetheart now?”

 

He flicked his wrist impatiently, “Irene…she is skilled, but lacks the fine breeding you possess…think”, he knelt at my feet once more, “I have my life, my fortune, am master of my own destiny with none to answer to…what are conventions to one such as I? Consider this sweet boy”. He trailed a finger down my face and even when he was done the feel of it still lingered.

 

A footman came forward from the shadows, I know not how long he stood there, or if he had heard what had passed, but Mr V spoke close to his ear and he nodded, then turned with a bow and departed. My body did not take kindly to what I had done and rising then, with a speed I did not know I possessed, I tipped myself over the edge of the balcony and proceeded to add to the bright decorations and bunting that were hung there. I was wretched, sweat drenched and stinking with puke, the smell of the smoke still clinging to my skin, curls damped down with water and clothes awry.

 

What did they see, these men that sought to have me? What value did I have beyond my looks, for there were many I had seen, more handsome than I, and tonight I was a disgusting mess and still a man of fortune and influence had knelt at my feet. I stood, thought better of the movement and bent my head down to the bushes again.

 

“Sherlock?....Sherlock!...Are you well? My god Sherlock”

 

Warm familiar hands stroked up my spine as I heaved once more, cheeks flushed hot from the exertion and the humiliating circumstance as John, my John coaxed and soothed, whispering words of comfort that I could not hear. I wiped off my mouth with the back of my hand and stood shaking, hands gripped onto the curved stone rail for support.

 

“What is wrong? What have you done to him?…By God if you’ve touched him I will run you through”.

 

“Touch him?” Mr V scoffed, “I have not _touched_ him…he has taken the smoke, opium…when he thought himself abandoned…I found him before it went too far”

 

 _“Too far?”_ John snapped, “What is _too far?_ ”

 

“There were others, and it made him a little…. _affectionate_ …as were you with the pretty Miss Morstan….his actions can be excused I think, for the boy was in turmoil…. you toy with him Master Watson, and it is beyond cruel”.

 

They faced each other, circling like two stags at bay, the dominant male and the strong young buck come to challenge his authority. I must make my choice, speak now or be forever cast into the role of helpless damsel, when I was neither. I staggered forward and stepped between them, an arm out to each to bid them to listen.

 

“Stop....I will hear no more…Sir”, I turned first to Mr V, “I am indebted to you for your kindness and assistance…I was not in control of myself and am grateful for your timely intervention….John, “I turned again, “If you choose Mary I will not stand in your way…It is an advantageous match…and I will remain your friend always, for you saved me, and for that I will love you always”.

 

“What _poison_ has he spilled into your ear to make y ou think this way?” John’s voice was trembling as he stared in disbelief. “I would not give you up for Miss Morstan or any other…I will not _choose_ her, and I am not _cruel_ , did you really think I would turn my head at the first pretty smile to be cast my way? I pledged myself to you and I have not wavered in my choice nor intend to do so”.

 

He was breathing hard, eyes wet with distress that I could not bear witness to, he took a step towards me hesitant at first and a desperate sound crept up from my throat, unbidden.

 

“I’m sorry…please Sherlock…please say you believe me…I looked for you, but you had gone”, he peppered my face with heartfelt kisses, held between his palms, “I thought you were dancing as I was, and Mary assured…she assured”, he faltered and shook his head a little, then pressed his forehead to mine, “No matter…nothing matters…I love you, you fool and none shall come between us I promise”.

 

He dragged my head down into a fierce, possessive kiss, heedless of my bedraggled state and sour mouth. Mr V nodded once and walked away, and in the shadow of the door, a figure in red stood watching, before it too melted silently back into the darkness.


	13. Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constable Lestrade sheds light on a mystery and John is summoned home.

The light assaulted my eyelids even when tight closed. I groaned, and pulled the covers up over my head which too hurt most abominably, a relentless pounding made worse with every breath I took. How I ever came to be here, I really could not answer. Faint memories swam across my mind of carriage rides, my head in John’s lap, his coat about my shoulders all the better to keep me warm, and kind hands that gently stroked and petted at my hair and down my shivering spine.

 

I was alone. The space at my back empty of his presence, no breath at my neck, no strong, firm limbs that wrapped around me in the night, no touch of naked flesh, the itch and prickle from the coarseness of the hair between his thighs and down his legs as they twined so completely with my own. My eyes slipped closed again. Ghostly fingers grasped at my body, to drag me back down into darkness.

 

When next I woke, it was to the sound of footfall, boot-clad feet that clattered and paced about the room, impatient or in agitation I could not quite discern. I raised my head, eyes squinting tight with the pain.

 

“Damn the sun, for it is much too bright”, I croaked out in a voice that was not my own, rasping and rough from bile and smoke alike and rendered even deeper than was usual. For I knew what I had done, what I’d put us both through, my transgression the worse for doubting his constancy in a moment of madness and insecurity.

 

The bed dipped beside me and John, fully dressed in outdoor garb sat by my side. He cocked his head and peered at me amused, taking in my disheveled hair, even wilder than was usual, the pallor of my skin and the ugly scents of my sins still upon me. Sweat, puke, drink, smoke and the tainting touch from the opium room.

 

“What a sorry sight indeed”, John said, his voice sounding harsh to my sensitive ears, “Champagne Sherlock and a little too much for your first it would appear… you took a little of the opium too, enough to rob you of your senses for a time”, he bent his head as if for a kiss and sniffed at my hair instead. “And you stink of it still…but by god I would still have you”.

 

“Then you are a fool”, I ventured, as I tried to sit, and the room turned over upon its end. I promptly lay back down again moaning softly in self-pity and discomfort. I wondered where he had been, feeling shame that in my insensible state I had not heard him leave. But he made no move to tell me, and so I struggled to sit once more, the sheets falling down from my naked body, and John, unconcerned, threw my night-shirt at my head, a garment wholly unfamiliar in all the days I had slept here.

 

“Where is the justice in this world? You drank as much as I….indeed I believe it was more”, I protested and cursed at my weak constitution, as I pulled the shirt up over my head and pouted for the fact he looked fresh and well rested while I felt wretched and drained of life.

 

“The drink is the lesser of the evils, Sherlock, this is not a trifling matter”, he began, “The Physician informed me the effects can lay dormant, you may feel quite recovered , but further exposure however brief may awaken a craving you may not be in control of. You wagered with your life last night…how could you be so careless?”

 

His tone was soft, more concern than anger but it stabbed like a knife to my chest nonetheless. I had gambled our future on the ivory pipe, and in truth I must confess it would not be the last time I succumbed. But that is a tale for another time, so suffice it to say, that for now I believed in my heart I would never be so reckless again. And sparing me the need to answer him now, John crossed the threshold to his room and returned with a laden breakfast tray and placed it on the bed before me, fresh bread and cold cuts, honey and preserves, a welcome sight on any other day but which set my belly in turmoil once again on this.

 

“Tell me, Sherlock for I am at a loss”, he sighed, “Do we have cause for concern?”

 

“From the pipe?”

 

“Not the pipe, no…from the gentleman who seemed to know us. Did you know it was he who called me there…. summoned to your side by a message from a stranger? He holds great power with what he knows, and yet I am indebted to him for the swift action he took on your behalf. But I do not know what to make of it all…tell me… does he love you?”

 

I pushed the tray aside and drew my knees up to my chin. How was I to answer that which I barely knew myself? But still I tried, for his sake, beckoned him close and curled up into his side with my head on his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart, too fast for one at rest.

 

“I met him only once before, the very same night I met you. All I know is of his wealth and nothing of his reputation, for the girls of the house confessed that he has always sought to keep that concealed. Not even my mistress knew of his name, but so long as he was willing to give coin she allowed it, but he expressed no desire to add to my corruption and warned me of the wicked path I had set myself upon”.

 

“Will he expose us, do you think?” he mused, as he dipped a finger into the honey and stuck out his tongue to lap at the thick sweet globules that cascaded down.

 

“No…we did much to expose ourselves last night, on that score the damage may be done”.

 

I could not be sure, and I would not accuse, but Mary had been there concealed in the shadow of the door when John had held me and confessed his love, and if any were to expose us, I felt it would be her. But I did not wish to speak of it, and my lips remained stubbornly sealed.

 

“No matter”, he said, pointedly ignoring the grimace on my face as he pressed a crusted roll into my hand, “Such events are noted for scandal far worse than ours…nothing will come of it I am sure. Come, make ready, for we are to see Lestrade in an hour, and you cannot come upon one such as he in the state that you are in, for he would sniff you out like a bloodhound as soon as you walk in the door”.

 

~*~

 

Our meeting with Lestrade was at a tavern in Cheapside, a location that I found belied its name. For shops it was unrivalled, an elegant thoroughfare and home to some of the wealthiest merchants in town with fortunes made from silk and linen, from cotton and gold and from silver, rebuilt to full glory at last like a phoenix from the ashes of London’s great fire.

 

I took little enjoyment from the journey there, for the jolt and sway of a carriage over cobblestones did little to ease a discomfort born of excess. For what had been pleasure in the moment, the shiver and tingle from sweet bubbles on my tongue had curdled in my gut like week old soured milk. It was a feat of endurance and a test of my fortitude, to keep hold of the meagre meal I had consumed, but John had insisted that we would not venture forth until I tried. He also made mention of withholding certain favours, which I must admit were more of a spur than was any desire for sustenance, it was a masterstroke, for he knew I could not do without.

 

We arrived at the Coach and Horses with time to spare, and taking a table at the back of the room, I settled myself to look around while John purchased ale from the bar. The tavern was a haunt of the honest working man, with good solid tables and sawdust upon the floor, there were men from the markets, clustered in groups and playing at cards, or eating heartily of pies and stews served by a buxom old dame with florid cheeks and a bosom that could hide a small army. She tipped me a wink as she passed, arms laden with pewter plates stacked high, brushing off advances from the somewhat hopeful patrons with practised ease, flashing her wedding band in good-natured apology.

 

John sat down in front of me rather than at my side, and slid a tankard of ale across the table, a thin scummy line of foam floating on the surface of the pale amber liquid. Thank god it tasted better than it looked, soothing the roughness in my throat and slaking the raging thirst that one always felt after excessive consumption of alcohol. Or so I had been reliably informed.

 

“How do you feel?” he asked, and I knew he did not mean my physical well-being, my agitation growing more apparent to him the second we had crossed the threshold.

 

“Like a prisoner who waits for the axe to fall upon his neck…I would have hoped my brother would have found me by now, if he had been able. But there has been nothing. Truly, do you believe he would have left my life to the fates if he had been in a position to prevent it? If Lestrade was dressed in a robe and carried a scythe I would think nothing of it”.

 

The reaper he was not, but I knew him as soon as he walked through the door. The way he carried himself, not in a military way you understand, but a poise and confidence, the physical presence of a man well versed in the limits of his body and who could use his physicality to devastating effect. He was not a man to be trifled with, but by this I do not mean to suggest he was large or brutish in stature and appearance, for quite the opposite in fact. Constable Lestrade was around five and twenty, with thick black hair and large brown eyes in a kindly care-worn face. He was handsome indeed, tall and lean, which if I did not know of his station in life would presume came from fencing or riding at the hunt, but which really came from chasing and bringing down London’s most notorious criminals. The patrons here knew it, and many a nervous look was cast his way from those who had something to hide. He took his hat off at the door eyes searching, and picked us out in seconds, he strode across the room with a purposeful look and sat at our table without any introduction.

 

“Mr Holmes and Mr Watson I presume”.

 

His voice was low and gruff, a Londoner born and bred by accent, as he offered up his hand for us to shake in turn. The grip was firm and sure. He looked between us both, to satisfy himself as to whom he addressed and turned his eyes on mine, the intensity such that I was the one to break off first, and he smiled satisfied, but with what I could not tell. Could he read a shady past in a face or the cut of your coat? One could only hope not, in consideration of my late profession.

 

“A pretty little mystery Mr Worthington brought to me”, he said, his countenance open and bright, “A missing person would not normally come to my notice, but this one was fascinating indeed”.

 

“Mycroft? Is he found?” I blurted, my attention roused. I slapped down my tankard, mid-way to my mouth and stared at John in alarm. My instinct was to clasp his hand, and indeed I had done that unthinking, my fingers were twined with his across the table the knuckles turned white from the force of my grip. Lestrade looked down, and I could see the wheels turning, to let go now in guilt would be worse to my mind so in silent agreement we did not pull away.

 

Keen, intelligent eyes met my own and he sighed, but gave no further indication of being perturbed by our display. He knew we were not cousins, there was no familial connection at all, which made his reaction all the more remarkable, and him being a Constable made it more so. Lestrade was an enigma indeed.

 

“No lad, steady on there…my apologies”, he answered softly, “I do not wish to give false hope, but there have been developments…of which you may help to decipher”.

 

“I? What more is there to say? I have not seen my brother these past seven years, all that I have is all the lawyers could document…”

 

“Lawyers?....a more contemptable band of blaggards I have yet to find. It is a mistake to put too much faith in them and expect that their documents hold all of the answers and truths in the world….pardon me for saying so, your Mr Worthington seems a solid young man, but give him a year or too and he’ll be as crooked as the rest of them”.

 

“And that is your professional opinion?” John asked.

 

“No, personal”, he shot back, “Now tell me…. does the name William Sherringford mean anything to you?”

 

My breath caught, and Lestrade nodded in satisfaction, “I see, I thought as much”. John looked at me in puzzlement to see me react this way to a name I had not told him of, but why should I have at all? For it was a fiction, an mere invention, William Sherringford did not exist, a name made up by two young boys in a game ten years ago or more. We liked to pretend Mycroft and I, that our rich and invisible sibling, William Sherringford would come for us and mama one day and take us to his castle or abroad, far, far away where father would never find us. He did it for me, a frightened little boy with split lip and a black eye who’d roused his father to fury by the simple fact of his existence.

 

Lestrade continued. “I found no more than the lawyers at first, your brother’s name is not in any public record you could speak of, not after 1763. But then I got to thinking about your family name. Holmes is common enough, by Mycroft? Sherlock? Not at all. But your name is not Sherlock now is it?”

 

John looked shocked and I hastened to reassure there was no duplicity at play, “William is my given name, Sherlock comes after, and Mycroft has a second name of Sherringford”.

 

John nodded to show he understood, “So your brother used an alias to evade who? Your father? the law? some other unseen foe?”

 

“I do not know”, I answered with honesty, “As boys we would use it in games…so this Sherringford”, I said, turning to Lestrade, “You have found him? He lives?”

 

For the first time Lestrade looked hesitant, touched by the longing now apparent in my voice. He reached across the table and covered my hand with his own.

 

Now we three were joined.

 

“A William Sherringford booked passage to the Indies in 1763, two months from the last date he was seen on your family estate, if indeed it were he…he travelled aboard the Aconissa out of Liverpool on August third of that year”.

 

I snatched my hand away then, in understanding of what was to come, “Did she go down?” I asked, hating myself for the way my voice shook.

 

“Ah, no…not sunk….captured by the Spanish, all those on board either dead or taken, but it cannot be confirmed …and the fate of the ship is unknown after that time”.

 

“So”, John ventured, his brother may yet live?”

 

“There is a chance, a small chance”, Lestrade said, looking at me with earnest eyes. “But what I can say for certain is that there is no further record of a William Sherringford residing in this country, not that there ever was.”

 

I wanted to believe so badly he was saved, that his bravery and cunning had brought him home to me , and that he was here searching for the brother he had lost, but for reasons unknown could not yet reveal himself. Perhaps he had used the same trick again and I had only a riddle to solve to discover his new name. I wished it to be so. I willed it so. How could hope be given and so cruelly snatched away again?

 

“It is a common enough practise is it not?” I said, more desperate now, “The use of another alias perhaps? He may have done this a second time”.

 

“I do believe Master Holmes, your brother meant you to find him, you knew that name straight off…but knowing the fate of the Aconissa, you must prepare yourself for the worst…more than that in fact, for we may never know….now”, he finished, “ are there are any other names he may have tried?”

 

I floundered, uncertain, searching my mind for any that seemed familiar. “No, there are not…I cannot think…I don’t know”.

 

“Calm yourself lad, take some time, consider it some more…and we can meet again, say a week from now?”

 

“Please Sherlock…if there is even the slightest chance”. John. He wanted this for me, a family of my own, security, to take up my rightful place in society and build a future together in any way we chose. If we were to be open at least in friendship, his family would not welcome a penniless orphan as companion to their only son.

 

“A week then”, I said, “If nothing occurs to my mind before then, it is never likely to. I thank you Constable Lestrade for your time, and for your diligence… you succeeded where others have not”.

 

“In that case I look forward to seeing you both again”.

 

He gave his thanks, and held out his hand for both of us in turn. He shook John’s first and when he came to shake mine he lingered and clasped his other hand on top.

 

“You should be more careful Master Holmes, a place such as this has many eyes and others may not be so…blind…as I. You are honest lads and it would be a shameful waste of youth and good sense to see either of you hang on Tyburn Hill”.

 

We said nothing to rebuke his claim, for what was there to say? He had the right of it, and knew so, but fortune had favoured us in our association, and an ally on the side of the law could be of great value one day. He took his leave, and fixing his hat upon his head once more, moved swiftly through the midday hoard, exchanging smiles and nods with many, slapping backs and pumping arms as he went. Lestrade was well known and well liked in this place, unusual in his occupation and a mark of his character as an honourable man.

 

I liked him well.

 

~*~

 

We had scarce been home an hour when the note arrived, having just stripped off our coats and boots to lounge in comfort with curtains drawn to block out the sun and cool the room. I lay sprawled upon the chaise and John was on his bed, both in breeches with shirts untucked, mine unbuttoned to the waist, sweaty and unkempt. John stared at me in confusion as the knock came at the door. Sarah knew very well by now to leave us alone at certain hours of the day and her mistress was unaccustomed to any activity of service which did not involve the extortion of coin from her beleaguered residents.

 

The knock came again louder this time and he sprang from the bed to answer it.

 

“I’m so sorry sirs, begging your pardon young sirs, but the gentleman was most insistent that you have this now. I told him sir, I said you were not to be bothered in the daytime, but he gave me this sirs, and please forgive me I couldn’t say no”.

 

Sarah held out her hand, face blushing madly and there in her palm sat a shining golden guinea, a fortune indeed to lowly young housemaid, and a handsome tip indeed for the delivery of a simple note.

 

“It is my father”, John said, before he even read it, the wax seal unbroken, the note still clutched in his hand, “All is well Sarah, go now Sarah, you did right to take it and I’d far rather you have the advantage of it than any other in this house”. She bobbed a curtsy, relief on her delicate features and retreated with an anxious glance to John.

 

He looked troubled, staring at the paper as if it were a torment just to hold it in his hand, until finally he sighed, a decision made inside his head, he came and sat beside me on the chaise, perched upon the edge of it as if to take flight at the least provocation. In silence he ran his thumb beneath the seal and the wax split in two, he spread the paper upon his lap, and a few scrawled lines were all I could see as his eyes ran over the words again and again, so that surely he must have read it a dozen times or more before he lifted his head and spoke.

 

“My father requests that I pay him a visit, he will send a carriage this evening. He wishes to discuss our mutual interest, as he does so love to call it”.

 

The paper crumpled in his hand and he threw it into the empty grate where it lay and unfurled again.

 

“Forgive me”, I said, wary of inviting his censure, “but I do not understand”.

 

“The business Sherlock, the business calls again, he said we would speak of it again come summertime, but he will not listen no matter how I put my case. I have not the head for the merchant trade, the family would be ruined if it were left to my care. I have argued and argued many times that a steward, someone with skill and experience would serve his interests best. That way the business would remain intact and secure for the heirs and I would be free to pursue my interests elsewhere. Stubborn old fool that he is, I thought after the last time he may have relented a little, but I cannot ignore it, we will be plagued until I hear him speak his piece”.

 

“We?”, I asked, not sure if this was a slip, a mere figure of speech.

 

“Yes, we”, John answered, “He has heard tell that I have a new close acquaintance and wishes to meet with you also….Do not be concerned”, he said hurriedly, when I failed to school my features in time to something more unmoved, “He pulled this trick with Charles Worthington too. He only wishes to satisfy himself that you are not some corrupting influence, and then I can assure you he will let you alone”.

 

But his words did little to ease my anxiety. John’s house, John’s family, John’s father, if I passed this test I would truly be a part of his world.

 

The carriage came at eight for a late-evening supper, and the light was still bright as day when we arrived at John’s family home in Hampstead Village, a beautiful red brick mansion house in the North West of London set back from the main thoroughfare. A wide sweeping drive led up to the entrance where large oak double doors sat atop seven wide stone steps, bordered on each side by carved stone pillars in the Grecian style. It was impressive, designed with an eye to the aesthetic, displaying the wealth of the family that lived there without resorting to overt ostentation.

 

I could tell from the first that John hated it, his jaw set and tense.

 

“John!...My darling!...You grow more handsome with each passing day…I have missed you so my dear”.

 

“Grandmama”, John smiled, at an exquisitely turned-out old woman, her silvery hair still lush and thick, piled in coils at the crown and wearing a beautiful jade green gown. The resemblance was striking, that same deep-blue steadfast gaze, and open, honest countenance which endeared him to all that he met. He took her hands in a delicate hold and gently bent down to kiss her cheek.

 

“And who have we here?” she said, turning to face me, “You must be the charming young companion I’ve heard tell of, don’t be shy child, you look as if you’ve come upon the lions in their den!” she laughed, and dropping John’s hands, she reached to take mine and I blushed that she might favour me this way with scarce an introduction. “Come now John”, she scolded, “You forget your manners boy”.

 

“Forgive me Grandmama”, he said, regaining his composure once again, “ This is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, a most treasured friend”. He clapped a hand to my shoulder and made no attempt to conceal his broad smile.

 

“Holmes…Holmes”, she mused, her eyes glazed in thought, as she looked me over again, “The name is familiar, as is your face…do tell me, is your father in trade?”

 

“Yes madame, or was…he passed some ten months ago, taken by the small pox, he and my mother both”.

 

“Ah yes, the Lancashire Holmes’…I heard tell of it at the Assembly Rooms, a very sad business after losing the family fortune too. I knew your mother boy, when she came out as a debutante, a very great beauty, I see the resemblance…I never cared for your father much, he was much too fond of the gin and the cards, even then, small wonder that he lost it all”.

 

“Grandmama please!”, cried John, mortified on my behalf, but I gave a small smile to show I did not mind. She was as honest as her beloved Grandson, direct and unafraid, and besides, I knew where the fault lay.

 

“Hush now John”, she said with a dismissive wave, “Sherlock does not take offence…come, “she linked her arm in mine and walked me to the entrance to the dining room, “You will sit by me at dinner and tell me many a scandalous tale of my beautiful Grandson”.

 

I was quite happy to take her arm, she would be a delightful companion to sit by, and her knowledge of my family gave me comfort that my position in society had not yet been truly lost.

 

And just as we were to enter, with John standing close at my side, a footman rushed up, near breathless from exertion and John paused, frowning while he waited for the lad to calm himself and spit his message out.

 

“Lady Watson…forgive my intrusion”, he gasped, bowing to the lady at my side, “Master Watson and Master Holmes”, he went on, “You are wanted in the library….My apologies sir”, he bowed a little to John this time, “Your father has requested that before you dine you must speak with him first”.

 

“And he requested to see us both?” “Yes sir, he did sir…most particular he was sir on that score”.

 

“Very well”, John snapped in irritation, “My apologies Grandmama…I must rob you of your fair companion for a moment….come Sherlock, let us see what the old goat wants”.

 

I felt her gaze upon us as John led me across the sumptuous hall to the other side of the mansion house. We passed through a door and down a long passage and up a narrow staircase to a sparsely furnished private landing. There was only one door here, heavy oak like the entrance, with a worked iron knocker and large heavy hinges. This had more of the look of a private study than what I would take to be a library. John rapped on the door with four brisk knocks and he waited, ear pressed close to the wood until he heard a distant call of “Come”. He pushed the door open and ushered me inside, and I gazed in wonder as I tried to comprehend the vast, warm room lined from ceiling to floor with the finest mahogany shelves simply bursting at the seams with books.

 

“What is this?”, snapped a harsh, indignant voice, and I froze in shock. My heart began to hammer in my chest and the blood drained away, I dearly wished for something to cling to, but there was nothing, only John, John’s arm…I reached out and pulled back abruptly as another harsh bark rent the air.

 

“I ask you again sir and demand that you give me an answer…What damned impudent trick is this?”

 

If I could have made my feet obey I would have run from that place, so horrific was the position I found myself in. I felt sick, my face grew hot, and a feeling of pure devastation at what I was now to lose tore at my heart. For Watson was _Weston,_ the abominable would be destroyer of my virginity, the one who had sought to take and to violate for a fifty guinea attempt not five months previous. I could feel his coarse sweaty hands on my body and taste his vile stinking breath in my mouth, the weight of him pinning me, the way he thrust against my thigh and spilled his noxious seed, grunting and panting, a great heaving boar.

 

How could my John be a part of this creature, this monster who would take without consent?

 

I grieved for him. It would be his loss too in the end.

 

“Trick sir? I don’t understand sir”, John stuttered, in ignorance of my plight,“I have done as you asked, have I not?”

 

He looked back to where I stood. I could only stand mutely, not knowing what to say, for to say anything at all may be the end of us both. His father was guilty, of a most heinous transgression, and to mark me, to speak of our liaison would also serve to mark him in turn.

 

“Do you bring this little _whore_ here to make a fool of me?”

 

Weston had cast all caution aside. It was done.

 

Whatever was to come I must fight my corner for I was not the one who had done wrong.

 

John stiffened in anger at the insult, and strode away from me towards his father’s desk where he stood, hands pressed to the surface and knuckles white to keep them from moving to strike. If the man had not been his father then he would be on his back by now, to name me as such in his presence.

 

“Little whore?” he hissed through clenched teeth, “Indeed sir you are mistaken!”

 

“No sir, I assure you, I make no mistake, he’s a damn little swindling trickster of a whore…and you found him in a brothel sir….do you dare to deny it?”

 

“I will not deny it…where we met is immaterial…Sherlock is of noble birth…I entreat you sir to see reason”.

 

“My son…gone whoring…you went whoring in a brothel and you took one home…been sticking your cock in _a boy_ … and then thought you’d foist him on the family did you now…I will not have it I say!”

 

They parried back and forth, both steadfast and determined to press his point. This was not John’s fight though, it was mine and mine alone. I forced my unwilling limbs to motion and faced my accuser, the destroyer of my happiness, and if I was to fall it was also in my power to bring him down too. I had no reason to feel shame and held my head aloft, no more the cowering boy he had forced himself upon.

 

“I am no thieving whore sir, nor ever was…on that I think you well know”.

 

Both men stopped, Weston red-faced and apoplectic with rage that I should even dare to address him, his lip curled in disgust, which was a vicious irony, I thought, he being the truly disgusting one. I met his gaze and watched him squirm with pleasure. The strength of his ire had overwhelmed him, and he panted, chest heaving as I squared my shoulders in defiance.

 

“Sherlock? ….Have you met my father?”

 

John looked on in confusion, not having made the connection yet, that his father frequented the whore-houses too, but with intent to seek out young virginal boys to despoil in a sickening belief in his dominance and prowess. How many had he touched, how many had he ruined? I could only count my blessings that I had not been among them.

 

“Well sir? Have we sir? Have we met before?”

 

“NO!”

 

The noise was torn from his throat, and a fat, ugly finger was turned upon my face , but I would not be silent now, I would have the damned bastard exposed.

 

“And I know what I know sir…should you like your son to hear of it?”

 

But the filthy pig addressed John instead. The coward that he was.

 

“You have been cozened by a whore…you will cast him off this minute or I swear that you will never see another penny of my money…you will be dead to me, ridiculed and scorned, denounced by all who know you as a whoremonger and sodomite…and if that is your choice then go…I will here no more of it …you sicken me…you and he both”.

 

“ _It was you!_ ”. John surged forward, fists clenched and I held fast to his waist to hold him back. “It was you… _the defiler_ …the one who sought to take him against his will when he begged you to desist… _you foul, odious, execrable monster_ …if any here should be reviled then I say sir, that it is _you!_ ”

 

Weston shook where he stood, then opened his loathsome maw and crowed:

 

“GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT”.

 

John turned on his heel, “WITH PLEASURE!” and twining my hand in his he pulled me away towards the door and out.

 

The servants stared in awe as we passed, John set and determined, striding angrily, so swift it was a task to keep pace. My side burst in pain, but I followed on dogged, outside and around the side of the mansion to a well-kept stable. He cast around and headed for an open stall where a lad was bent at his task, with firm brisk strokes, he smoothed a brush along the flanks of a young dappled grey, who snickered softly at our approach. John let go of my hand, and in two quick steps he buried his face in the pretty mare’s neck, smoothing his hand in soothing strokes over her thick glossy mane.

 

“Master Watson”.

 

“Jim…can you make her ready? I don’t have long…saddle up the bay and come too I will need you to bring her back home”.

 

“Yes Master Watson”.

 

“For god’s sake call me John”.

 

“And your friend sir?”

 

“Sherlock will ride with me…we will take the track over the heath, then it is but a short distance…you can take the horses back and we will go on foot from there”.

 

Jim nodded his assent without question and set to his task, while John walked me over to a stack of baled hay and sat, signalling that I should do the same. The hay prickled at my legs, and I stifled a sneeze in the dusty air as a shimmering cloud of Thrips hovered before us in the half-light.

 

“I did not know”, I said, “That your father was that man”.

 

“Do _not_ apologize”, said John in answer, “It was _not_ your fault, not a second that you spent in that place was ever your fault…and even if he had taken you… it would not change the way I feel”. He laughed then, a soft, sweet chuckle, and moved closer, he gently took my face between his palms, his lips poised a mere breath away so that every part of me yearned for him, his kiss, his touch.

 

“So I had for love what he couldn’t buy with money?” he said and arched his brow.

 

“Was there ever any doubt?”

 

His lips brushed gently across my own, the barest touch at first, then pressing, more insistent, the flick of a tongue against the tip of my own, questing deeper, tasting, a hand on the back of my neck to pull me in. I cared not where we were, only that I was with him and he wanted me still, I pressed back against him, sliding my hands along the strong, muscled planes of his thighs and up, up, to tease at the hard, heavy prick swollen and ready between them. He caught my hand with a groan and stilled me, and I gave a strangled cry of frustration at being denied.

 

“Hush now”, he said, smoothing the hair from my brow, “there will be time enough for that…but first, I wish to take you home with me, our home, and fuck you on your knees, at the foot of the bed on the floor with your head on the mattress and the weight of me along your back…much more desirable than itchy hay in a horses stable that will scratch at your arse and make you sneeze”.

 

“What of your father? Your home?”

 

“This place is no longer my home, and has never been so in truth since the day my mother passed on, I only ever return to see Grandmama. Listen”, he said, clasping my hands in his, “Whatever is to come, however he chooses to proceed after this, it will change nothing, not a single thing between you and I, and if ever we were parted, know that I would crawl upon my hands and knees through the filth of this earth to get back to you again”.

 

“As would I….I love you John…I…”

 

Feet scuffed nervously in the yard, a subtle attempt to catch our attention, and Jim stepped into the light.

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt like this John, but there’s a hell of a kerfuffle goin on up at the house…and I thought you might have had something to do with that, like…the horses are ready, so I think we’d best be off before they come lookin down here, you know?” Jim eyed me cautiously and smiled, “Don’t worry sir, our John’s a hell of a horseman…you’ll be in good hands”.

 

We followed him out to the stalls and he led two horses out into the yard. The dappled grey he had been tending, and a solid old chestnut, supremely unconcerned, and quite unaware of the part they were to play in our flight. We mounted up swiftly, I behind John in consideration of my greater height, and he wheeled the horse around, Jim at the rear, leaving the stable and the grounds of the house by the back way across the neatly manicured gardens. The horse’s hooves tore up the ground, but he did not give pause, and kept on, up onto the heath, wide and empty in the growing darkness, we thundered on as if the very hounds of hell were at our heels. John was indeed a magnificent horseman, and I clung to his waist in earnest, the wind whipping through my hair and rushing past my ears, as the speed of the mare at the gallop exhilarated and terrified in equal measure. All too soon we slowed, settling down into an even, steady canter and slower still as we skirted the border of the tree-line, the sprawl of the city set out beneath us .

 

Jim trotted up to our side, “You’ll be going on alone now John?”

 

“Aye Jim, if I can catch a carriage all to the good, but we’ll be leaving you now on any account…I thank you friend”, he pulled in alongside and hands were shook in earnest, “Look after yourself Jim and if the old bastard gives you hell, you were only following orders from your Master, and you can’t be blamed for that”.

 

There was something in the way he said it, the glint in his eye and the answering grin from the lad at our side, that said to me that they had been more to each other than their stations should allow, but whatever had been between them there seemed only a mutual regard and friendship now.

 

The night air was cool and still, and I peered around nervously to gauge if we were truly alone, their voices seeming louder than they ought. But the heath was silent, just the rustle of the breeze through the trees overhead, if it weren’t for the distant sounds of life from the city below, I could believe myself home in the country once more. How much my life had changed since then.

 

“Luck be with you John….Hup there”, Jim softly called, and the horses took off, quickly moving out of sight as we stood still and watched, till the hoof beats faded to nothing, and I gently touched John’s arm to rouse him.

 

“Come”, I said, “There is nothing to be gained if we linger here, let us eat, and sleep, and perhaps the way will be clear to us come morning”.

 

“Perhaps”, John smiled softly, with something of sadness and longing in his eyes, “And it seems now that I am an orphan too …I wonder what is to become of us?”

 

Now I was required to be strong, as he had done so many times before on my behalf. I picked out the way to the cobbled lanes below, and walked towards wherever the signs of life were most apparent. Once amongst the living again, I procured us a carriage outside a bustling tavern, and once the driver was satisfied we had the coin to pay he took us on. It was well after midnight when we came upon our door, and loath to wake Sarah at this ungodly hour we crept into bed with rumbling bellies, casting off our clothes and curling up beneath the sheets I in front and John behind as was our custom and our comfort.

 

“I have friends”, John murmured sleepily, “There are those who may assist us…it may take a little time is all…and as time is all we have, I have faith we will make good”.

 

I drew his arm around me and clasped his hand to my heart.

 

Each other.

 

That was all we had left now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The ship the Aconissa in the story is based on the General Goddard which sailed from 1782-1799 (later than our story which starts in 1769) before it was indeed captured by the Spanish in the West Indies -subsequent fate unknown.
> 
> \- There were a range of punishments for sodomy in the 18th century, ranging from pillory (the stocks), to imprisonment, to execution by hanging. Public executions were held at Tyburn gallows on Tyburn Hill of the prisoners from Newgate prison until after the late 18th century.
> 
> \- A gold guinea was worth £1.00 sterling, or around 20 shillings, and if you consider that the average wage of a housemaid like Sarah was around £6-£8 per YEAR, one guinea would have been worth a least a couple of months wages to her.
> 
> \- The Watson family home is based on Fenton House in Hampstead Village, North-West London an 18th century merchant's house.


	14. A Tale Of The Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels John grow more distant - but what does he really have planned?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first half a a chapter that just grew and grew - apologies for the delay chums!

 

“John, have a care, we will be seen”, I protested weakly, with no real resistance in my voice or in my actions.

 

My back was pressed into the damp brick wall inside the entrance to a seemingly abandoned warehouse on Filigree Street close to the riverbank. Voices could be heard quite clearly not ten yards hence, from the street hawkers who plied their wares along the busy embankment and the poor folk as they went about their everyday business.

 

“Hush then” John said darkly shoving his hand down the front of my breeches and pushing my small-clothes aside to seek his prize. “Or shall I hush you myself, for I know how you love to make noise.”

 

I blushed at the truth of his words and he stifled my moan with his free hand clamped against my mouth, sweeping his other along the length of my cock; I arched helplessly into his touch, already grown stiff and pulsating with heat. It was such an exquisite torture. He had been like this for many days, at any moment whether opportune or otherwise he cared not for any consequence, seeking the comfort of my body like a man possessed. Light touches on the arm or the length of my thigh in a carriage, caresses upon my cheek, dragging my head to the side to mouth at my neck and mark the skin a dark purple beneath the silk of my cravat. It was unseemly, debauched and desperate he would fall upon his knees in front of me in the darkness of an alley as we made our way home in the early evening gloom, head bobbing and sucking me down in earnest while all I could do was grip firmly at the hair on the crown of his head whilst I shivered to my completion between his lips.

 

The risk was a thrill to him, the danger, the adrenaline and I for my part did little enough to discourage his advances, knowing full well the cause. But he would not speak of it. Of what had transpired that night in his father’s house. His countenance would grow clouded and dark like a stormy winter sky and the entire stance of his body would change, shoulders tensed, hands clenched into fists at his sides and the knowledge that I could not reach him in his turmoil would tear at my soul. And so I would give him this, these moments, gladly. I pushed my thigh between his legs and grasped at his arse, pulling him close to my body. He sighed, gratefully and took his hand from my mouth to replace it with his lips, as he stroked at my cock and ground his hips into the firm flesh of my thigh. We panted together roughly, starved of air and sweat-soaked growing ever more frantic to spill before the master of this place came back and we could be discovered. I shuddered, every sense alight and tingling as I thrust into his clenched hand. It was inelegant, to say the least, to want in this way, to do such things in the streets in daylight and I grimaced at the warm splash of seed upon my belly as John pulled us over the precipice together. I could feel the damp heat of his release against my thigh, and when he eased away from me, panting, I could see the darkened silk at the front of his ruined breeches where he had spilt. We put ourselves on order as best we could. I smoothed down the lines of his waistcoat where it had bunched up against my stomach, blessedly covering his incriminating groin, and he in turn ran his fingers through my tousled curls, tucked my shirt back into my breeches and refastened the placket with shaking hands.

 

“Forgive me”, he said, drawing out a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat to wipe the sticky mess from his palm.

 

“For what?” I said, “There is nothing to forgive”.

 

I brushed my fingers lightly across his cheek and pressed a swift, dry kiss at the corner of his mouth. John blinked at me in the half-light, his brow creased in thought. He opened his mouth and drew a breath as if to speak again but then he turned away from me instead, and made his way towards the tall wooden gates pulled closed to conceal our illicit assignation.

 

He peered through a gap between the wide oak planks and satisfied that we were not observed, lifted the heavy iron latch and pulled the gate inwards, enough to make a small gap for us to slip outside once more. He motioned me to come, and I composed myself as best I could, although I knew that my cheeks were still high in colour; we shimmied through the gap and out into the warm summer sun burning high in a cloudless blue sky. It was a beautiful day, as clear as any you could wish for in the midst of the sprawling city, but after the darkness of the warehouse, the bright light hurt my eyes and I shielded them from the glare with the back of my hand.

 

“The gentleman on our left”, John muttered from the side of his mouth and discreetly motioned, “Sitting by the brewery wagon, why does he stare, do you think ?” I squinted to where John had indicated, my eyes adjusting slowly to the light, to where an old gentleman peered at us in open curiosity, and something else, a tension as he fumbled in his pockets, cast his eyes down then back up at us warily.

 

“He is a thief”, I stated simply, stealing from his employer and worries that we have been sent to spy on him, expose him and hand him over to the runners. We have been here three times this week yet our business is not clear, two strange young faces….he is old and afraid, in debt most like….but of no import to us”.

 

John stared at me nonplussed, “How do you?....No…..I would hardly understand….Sherlock you astound me, how you see these things, how you know”.

 

I could not answer, for I barely knew how this came about myself. It could be a look, the way a person held themselves, an item of clothing, a gesture, a moment’s hesitation in a pattern of speech. They spoke to me, these human puzzles and I could see in my mind how all of the disparate pieces came together to form the picture, the whole. It had grown, this knowledge, these feelings, every day we spent wandering the streets of the city and could feel it in my bones now, this filthy and glorious place, every scent on the wind, every sight and every sound, knew where we were eyes closed through the soles of my boots and could feel every pulse of its beating heart.

 

“You know it better than I, and I have lived here all my life” John had said in amusement as for the third time that week alone I had redirected the carriage we were riding in to take us a swifter and more expedient route home.

 

“Come, leave him be,” I said, tugging impatiently at the sleeve of his coat. “Let us not forget our true purpose here, it is almost the appointed hour”.

 

John cast once last nervous glance to our right before he followed at my side, his short, quick strides keeping an easy pace with my own. It was past noon as we made our way along the crowded embankment by Westminster bridge, stopping only briefly to buy a pork pie apiece from a butcher’s boy with a laden tray, and to sit in the shade of a cypress tree, savouring the rich buttery crust and the succulent meat within. A carriage would not have aided us this day, the route rendered impassable, clogged with brewery drays and wagons from the warehouses.

 

And we slowed on our journey once more as an open-topped carriage came up hard, the hooves of the smart black horses clattering and skittering on the bumpy cobblestone ground. The driver cursed and complained as two stocky men in what had once been white aprons, rolled heavy oak barrels up a trestle into the back of a dray, unhurried. We squeezed past the carriage with three pretty girls and an elderly chaperone inside. John smiled as we passed, which resulted in a most annoying peal if giggles, much whispering behind hands and fluttering of eyelashes and a most disapproving scowl from the elderly maid.

 

“You are the most abominable tease”, I hissed, blushing red as one of the ladies held my gaze.

 

“Ah, but you know I have eyes for only one”. He winked at the ladies which sent them all of a flutter again and pinched my arse at the very same time and made me yelp out loud. I hopped on one foot a little, pretending to have stubbed my toe while he laughed until his eyes were wet with tears of mirth.

 

“Incorrigible”, I muttered to myself. I threw him my most withering glare as we continued on our way to the Bridge Inn on Broad Street where we were expected at one.

 

John fished out his pocket watch. “All is good, we have ten minutes to spare”.

 

The inside was blessedly cool and we seated ourselves at a table by a window facing out onto the street, a pint of cool ale apiece. We had barely sat for five minutes or taken more than a mouthful of our ale, when a young boy of not more than ten years old peered warily through the entrance. I caught his eye and waved him over to our table.

 

“Mr ‘olmes?”, he said, scratching at his no doubt, lice-ridden head, keen dark eyes staring out of a dirt-streaked face.

 

“Yes, it is and you must be Billy?”

 

The boy glared at me, did not answer but thrust forward his outstretched palm, and John sighed beside me and dug out a silver sixpence from the pocket of his waistcoat, holding it out between thumb and forefinger. The boy reached out and John snatched it away from his grasp and cocked an eyebrow meaningfully. “Ere beggin your pardon guv’nor”, he gave a sarcastic half- bow to us both, “I didn’t mean nuffink by it”.

 

John dropped the coin into his grubby little hand and he flashed us a wide, cheerful grin. He turned and made his way back across to the doorway returning a moment later with a portly red-faced man in tow before slipping away again and out of the open door.

 

The man glanced at us suspiciously. “Not your sort of place lads”, he said, in a thick South London accent.

 

“Needs must”, I answered coolly, “I understand you worked the ports in the North for a time six years ago?” “That I did lad, twenty years served, keeping records at the Liverpool docks, trading, cargoes, immigrants….”

 

“And passengers?”

 

“Aye, passengers an ‘all….listen lad”, he said, lowering his voice and moving closer so he would not be overheard, “Billy said was you was after, and that copper already bent my ear last month, and I don’t recall no boy by the name of Sherringford. Bloody hell lad it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack after all these years”.

 

He said nothing of which I wasn’t most painfully aware, but treading old ground was not my purpose and I tried again.

 

“The ship itself, what was the word amongst the sailors when she was lost, or passengers from the Mediterranean sea?” He face darkened and he glanced around in fear. “The Spanish don’t have her, but that’s all I know, they may ‘ave done, first off, but pirates is what I heard, common enough in the West Indies these days and not something the Spanish would be wanting to admit to… makes ‘em seem weak ya see…they can’t be ‘avin that”. I nodded, my mind whirling with a myriad possibilities. “I’m sorry, for the loss of your brother lad, terrible business, but attack by the Spanish, and pirates too….”, he shook his head sadly, and what else he planned to say hung unfinished in the air. But his meaning was clear, he saw my search as a fruitless task and pitied me for it, imagining me clutching at straws.

 

Yet it was one more piece to add to the puzzle.

 

~*~

 

My room was now strewn with the fruits of our labour, set in piles around the chamber, shipping charts and parchment scrawled with notes I had taken from the record books at customs and excise, names and dates, pages torn from the broadsheets and financial pages laid out in precarious order upon the floor.

 

Sarah was forbidden from entering my room. ‘Not that I would even try’ she had exclaimed, staring in disbelief at the seemingly haphazard mess. But it made sense to me, in a peculiar way, as I sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, in silent contemplation salting away what we had learned in a vault inside my head.

 

John for his part encouraged what others would see as the grossest folly, chasing shadows of the past with an ever increasing urgency. For our situation was most fragile at this time, his father making good on his threat to cast John off, our very future hanging in the balance, as the pot of money dwindled and we did our best to eke out the very last of John’s allowance.

 

We would not be here much longer. If we did not find Mycroft, or work, we would be out on the streets or worse.

 

John was distraught, although I was sure he shielded the worst from me, as often when he thought that I could not see him, that he was unobserved, his beautiful face betrayed the deepest sadness and I knew he bore the scars of his estrangement and that it was a heavy burden.

 

“Nothing new for Lestrade?” John asked, standing awkwardly at the doorway between our rooms. He was dressed to go out, while I sat stripped to the waist in nought but my smallclothes ink smudged along my hand and the side of my face from where I had leant on a sheaf of newspaper clippings and had then wiped a hand across the sweat on my brow.

 

“Not as such”, I answered. John knew of my frustration at the inability to break new ground. “The runners would do well to make enquiry of the step-father for I do believe he has murdered the Lady Forrester’s suitor to claim her fortune for his own”. I waved an inky sheet in my hand, proclaiming a mysterious society disappearance of Mr Jeramiah Cosgrove, lately engaged. ‘Bow Street Baffled’ the headline proclaimed. Hardly surprising as it seemed to be their perpetual state of existence, Lestrade excepted.

 

“Perhaps it is your calling, what wage would a man like Lestrade receive I wonder?”

 

“Too young”, I mused, turning the page with an impatient snap. “Although I may offer my services as an independent consultant…. what say you? I looked up absently then, to see his reaction to my words said in jest, until I realised he was poised to leave, alone. I put down my papers, and made to rise. “Where are you going?” Skilfully ignoring the question he had earlier asked, not wanting to admit I had made no further progress in the quest to find my brother. He knew this of course, the question a mere politeness, words to fill the silence, but there was something in his tone which made my stomach clench in a most disconcerting way.

 

“Into town, Holburn”. His eyes flicked away from mine unable to hold my gaze, thus confirming my suspicions.

 

He was lying. And I did not know why. It was ever my curse that my lover would be the one I could not read.

 

“Charles may have word of a clerks position, in Middle Temple. It will not take long, I will be back in an hour or so”.

 

I narrowed my eyes as he turned his body away. The clerks job existed, that much was true, we had talked of it only last night, but there was more to this tale that he sought to conceal from me. I put my papers aside, my attention fully fixed upon him.

 

“John….I…”

 

“Do not fuss Sherlock, all is well”, he said, too quickly, pulling on his gloves before I could say more. He paused for a moment at the outer door, and I eased myself up fully from the chaos on the floor around me and padded across the room toward him. But before I could reach his side he cast me one last plaintive look and swept out the door leaving my careful chaos in ruins at my feet. Rushing to the window I peered down onto the street below and followed his familiar figure down the steps to the roadside where he stepped into a carriage which was waiting by the kerb.

 

Waiting.

 

It was planned then, and an expense we could dearly afford. I pressed my face to the glass and followed them to the end of the street from whence they turned right towards Covent Garden, not left towards Holburn as he had claimed; my consternation grew as I watched him out of sight.

 

Sarah tapped on the door, waiting patiently for my answer before she turned the handle and answered. She tsked at the mess with her customary disapproval, but did not baulk for a second at my obvious state of undress for we had been caught in positions far more compromising than a mere lack of clothing by now. She carried two clean towels draped over her arm and a fresh new bar of lavender soap.

 

“Master Watson says you’ll be having a bath now, and to dress in the blue that brings out your eyes….oh, and be ready to leave the minute he returns”.

 

“Does he indeed”, I snapped imperiously and felt a little ashamed at the wounded expression that crossed her sweet face. More softly I continued. “And he couldn’t tell me this himself…why may I ask?”

 

She still looked troubled. “That I don’t rightly know sir, but very insistent he was, said to tell you especially to wash that shaggy mop…..his words sir”, she added hurriedly, dropping an apologetic curtsey lest her words had caused offence as my hand shot up to my head. Sarah bobbed at the knees yet again. “Shall I have the water brought up now sir, or will you be needing some time to….”, she hesitated, taking in my filthy room, “put things straight”, her voice trailed off weakly.

 

In answer, I closed the adjoining door behind me with a snap so that we both now stood in John’s much tidier room. “Out of sight out of mind” I said, and laughed at the lie behind those words.

 

~*~

 

John did not return. Instead he sent a message that a carriage would arrive at eight, with standing instructions to take me on to a pre-arranged destination. What he failed to impart was that I was to be accompanied, the first inkling coming from a familiar heavy footfall upon the stairs.

 

I was ready as he would have wished, in a suit of charcoal grey, with a long-tailed top coat. The waistcoat I wore was of a softer silvered hue, and a deep-blue cravat was tied at my throat. The colours seemed at odds with the light, bright summer evening, but I adhered to what had been asked; if it pleased John that I should look this way I was happy to comply. I cared not for the opinion of any other man. Perhaps save one.

 

Hard, strong knuckles rapped smartly three times on the door and without waiting for any answer from my lips, the handle began to turn and a figure entered the room. My breath caught at the sight of him, any scathing words I had ready at this intrusion to my privacy dying in my throat, as I turned to see who would have the audacity to enter my chamber unannounced.

 

“T….Tom…?” the voice that escaped my lips sounded broken and lost, even to my own mind. And I stood agape, feet fixed upon the floor as a smile broke out across that fondly cherished face and he rushed across the room toward me.

 

“Well look at you”, he said softly, stopping short barely inches apart. His hands hovered in the air at my sides, not knowing if he could touch me now, if it was appropriate. But I cared not a jot for propriety and I flew into his arms and squeezed him so tight that he scarcely had breath enough to speak; the force of it knocked him back a pace or two and we staggered drunkenly “I had been about to remark what a fine gentleman you look”, he laughed when he had finally caught a breath, “But you’ve kicked that horse in the face soon enough lad hanging off my neck like that…gentleman my arse”.

 

I had no words, could not have predicted this startling turn of events. But I was most overjoyed to see my dear friend again, see his kind, open face, feel his strong warm arms wrapped tight around my body. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and felt a warm flush of shame to feel the prickle of tears gathering at my lashes. I squeezed my eyes closed and a warm wet trickle ran across his skin.

 

“Hey there” he said, pulling back so he could once more see my face. “We’ll have none of that nonsense, do you hear me?....Not ever again”. I nodded. “Sherlock?” he said softly and tipped up my chin, “I am the happiest of men to count you amongst my friends, and never doubt, ever again that you have a family who loves you truly”.

 

There were so many questions dancing around in my head, so many things we had left unspoken between us, my thanks for his silence, his kindness to a poor broken orphan who had no knowledge of the nest of viper’s he had stumbled upon in his naivety. I could have been destroyed, but his presence had always given me hope; that if there were others such as he in that world of filth and debauchery that it would not steal my soul. I would forever and always remain Sherlock Holmes.

 

“But why?” I said brokenly, unsure of the answer that I sought. “You’ll see soon enough” he said archly, “Are you ready? Shall we go?”

 

Only once seated in the carriage at last had I time to gather my thoughts. We sat opposite one another, knees bumping lightly with the motion of the wheels over cobblestones; Tom looked fondly at me knowing I had much to ask, but I not yet knowing how little he could tell.

 

“You are well”, he began as he sensed my hesitation yet again. “I had heard tell” he said almost shyly, looking up through his lashes, eyes fixed upon my face, “But it is good, more than good, to look upon you with my own two eyes after all this time”.

 

Indeed it had been several months since last had seen him and although he seemed unchanged I knew that I had altered irrevocably.

 

“And I likewise”, I answered, too simply perhaps. For Tom in truth looked magnificent in chestnut-brown breeches which showed the strong lines and muscles of his thighs to their finest advantage, a soft linen shirt of ivory and a waistcoat of the same hue with gold applique at the pocket and a row of gleaming gold buttons. His chestnut top-coat strained across his broad strong shoulders and sandy brown waves of hair flopped endearingly over one eye. He saw the admiration in my gaze, I think, roaming freely up and down the length of him. It pleased me when it raised a colour to his cheeks and he pushed the errant waves back from his forehead, face flushed with discomfiture and pleasure.

 

He cleared his throat to break the silence, rubbing his hands nervously upon his thighs, “Well aren’t you going to ask where we’re going?” he asked, “Always did have to know the far end of a fart and which way the bloody wind blows”, he added with a grin.

 

“Chelsea”, I said simply, and Tom looked at me aghast.

 

“Who the bloody hell told you that?”

 

“Direction of travel, towards Covent Garden but skirting round the edge, not heading through, the cobbles are more worn a greater proportion of ruts and holes, the driver has slowed but the roads are not busy, he means to spare the horse and pick the kindest route. I could smell the market at first, but now it has gone again, the hooves have lost much of their echo, lower buildings set more widely apart. Chelsea.” I finished as Tom eyed the closed dark blinds he’d drawn tight across the windows when we’d first climbed into the carriage, consternation and confusion etched upon his brow.

 

“And do you know why an all?” My face turned blank and he smiled triumphant. “Thank the lord…John would’ve had my head if you knew”.

 

“You have seen him then, spoken to him?”

 

“Aye, near a month ago the first time and early this afternoon too…..he came to Mrs Turner’s”, he went on, “And don’t look so worried lad, no-one knows of his part in all this, he had to pay of course to get me on my own…had a special favour to ask”, he said cryptically, “And don’t bother, neither cause I’m not saying no more”.

 

“On your own did you say?”

 

Tom huffed, “And you can get that out your head lad too, your John isn’t like that nor I for that matter, the only way I can get away from those bloody twittering girls is hidden away in my room, you remember?”.

 

I did. Set up a narrow flight of stairs upon the uppermost floor, Tom’s room had been small, but fine for one bed and two lads to share. The girls had the floor below, four generous rooms and two closets.

 

“Are you happy there Tom?” He sighed and took my hand in his. “It’s warm, it’s dry, there’s food on the table and a bed of my own. I don’t suffer just any man now, most are kind some just lonely, many are rich truth be told. That’s enough to be going on with for now….”

 

The carriage pulled up then, hooves scraping as the horses jostled against the pull of the reins. He dropped my hand and slapped a hand against my knee. “Come, let us not dwell on that which we cannot change, we have much to rejoice this night”.

 

“Another clue?”

 

“Perhaps”, he smiled.

 

Tom climbed down and held the door wide for me, and I halted in the doorway in amazement. For the carriage had brought me to a place I knew well, a place which held the most dearest of memories, the pub in Chelsea where I had first given myself to the one I could never be without. I stepped down onto the roadside and smoothed down imaginary creases, ran my fingers through my hair and tugged at the cravat around my throat. It felt too tight, too hot, too restrictive, my arms felt like air and my legs weak, and not my own. Tom stood to the side running a soothing hand along the anxious horses flank, they were keen to depart, the noise from the pub and surrounding establishments overwhelming to their sensitive ears. There was much laughter and revelry afoot.

 

I could not say why I felt such creeping anxiety. The secrets, John’s distant behaviour, and he had, I recalled spent much time away ‘on matters of business’ since his exile from the family fold. My work had consumed me, and I was aware that many hours could pass in which time I would not stir, silent, locked inside myself, shutting him out when he needed me most; and he was much too proud to ask for my comfort. I could not work it out, and so I turned to Tom instead. “I never knew you were a horseman Tom?”

 

“Oh aye…before I…before we…before”, he floundered and I cursed my wandering mind and tongue, and did not press him further. We all had a past, a life we were running from or were desperate to find a way back to.

 

It would never be my wish to cause him distress and so I pushed my own misgivings of this evening aside and gestured towards the door.

 

“I’m ready now”, I said.

 

“That you are lad” he smiled and took my arm.

 

~*~

 

All was heat and sound within. We stepped fully into the cheery oak-panelled, beer scented confines and the heavy door clicked shut at our backs. The noise it made should barely have been noticed, but a murmur of voices spread around the room and a hush descended, every head turning to stare. Tankards hung in the air, half-poised towards open mouths. And then the rush of noise returned and the men went back to their drinks and games paying us no more mind. The sound of idle chatter soon replaced the pounding rush of blood in my ears and for that I was thankful, as my legs felt weak with an inexplicable nervousness.

 

I knew this place. It had become so familiar to me in the time we had spent here that in some small way, it felt like a home, the patrons my family and the landlord like a benevolent uncle; even considering how our time here had ended.

 

Tom dropped my arm, lest that draw undue attention, though I knew it would not. Not here in this bohemian enclave. I was not so naïve, as once I had been , and now knew of these places, where men could go and be together, and not just as drinking companions, I meant in the fullest most explicit of ways. And so far this place had escaped any unwanted attention, from Bow Street from the magistrates from disgusted citizens and those who failed to understand how the heart can crave such things. But crave them it does, and such are the myriad ways in which a human can show love to another. I would not be ashamed for my heart had overflown with the purest spring of happiness from the day I had met my John.

 

Tonight this old familiar place was filled with many a familiar face from our time here. Old Henry in his perpetual place in the corner of the bar, with a long pipe in one hand and an ever full tankard in the other. He smiled and raised his hand in greeting, a plume of dense grey smoke curling above his head, I waved shyly in acknowledgement and smiled as he gestured to the bar maid Betsy, engaged in the vocal discouragement of a hand upon her arse. The perpetrator looked suitably chastened, as he received a good humoured cuff around the ear. There were groups sat at table playing cards, Cribbage and Poker by the look of it, pushing stacks of ha’penny’s to the centre of the stained wooden table tops. A press of bodies were crammed into every available space between, clutching tankards to their chests while a fragrant fug of tobacco smoke hung over the whole of it like the great smog of London itself.

 

I could not see John from where we stood beside the door, but I knew of a back room more suitable for a meeting place which the landlord had set aside for the use of private guests and diners with tables set out, candles at the centre, should the need or the occasion arise. I wondered briefly if this had been his object all along to have me dress in such finery so that we might dine together, good food, good wine and perhaps a little romance.

 

But then why was my dear friend Tom here too, decked out as we were in attire more fitting for an Assembly room ball, the ballet or the opera?

 

Still, if it were true the gesture was sweet beyond belief and set my heart beating fast against my ribs that he would do this for me, for us both when for days he surely had observed the way I’d fretted and worried at the wild divergence of his behaviour; distant, and pensive by turns and the primal urge that swept over him, the need for demonstrable affection, by pleasuring my body and his own whenever the chance arose. Not that I would ever deny him, for I just as surely had needs of my own.

 

My eyes searched amongst the soberly clad patrons of the pub with increasing agitation, stretched up upon my toes to over their heads as far as the smoky atmosphere would allow.

 

Tom tugged at my arm and spoke close, leaning into my ear, “John said you would know where to go”.

 

I turned to stare at him in confusion until struck with the most startling moment of clarity and relief. It pierced through the rising tide of blind panic in my mind that somehow there could have been a mistake in our coming here. But no; I nodded in recognition and stepped forward with a purpose renewed, ignoring any curious glances thrown our way for the richness of our attire for this place, silk cravats and finely tailored waistcoats at odds with the simple working men’s garb. For once I thanked providence for my slender form and quick, light feet as I bravely used elbows and shoulders to move easily through the press of bodies, carving a path for Tom behind me without an eyebrow or a fist for that matter raised against us. True, there were a few slopped beers and stubbed toes and a generous lungful of smoke for our troubles, but we made it through to the back of the room to a small oak door to the left of the bar. It sat incongruous, the space before it kept free of tables or stools. Nothing to show it as anything remarkable, but beyond the point the rest of the building was private, admittance at the sole invitation of the landlord himself, and so it remained habitually closed. It led, I knew, to the aforementioned dining room and from thence to another door to the stairwell with access to the all the upper floors and private guest rooms. A corridor veered off to the right of the stairs towards a narrow galley kitchen at the back of the building. This I knew from memory, as for the moment I stared perplexed as the way through remained resolutely, frustratingly barred.

 

And John, I knew it, although the pull was indefinable, was waiting in the room we had shared, our room, up the narrow flight of stairs where he had brought me on the day he had saved me, with its large iron bedstead and a window looking out onto the square below, the promise of red wine and kisses on his lips, crisp white sheets, soft pillows and whispers in the honey glow of candlelight.

 

“Sherlock m’boy! There you are lad at last!”.

 

A great booming voice loud enough to rattle the teeth in my skull called out from behind us. How had I missed him? The large familiar form of the landlord Mr Oxley, swung back the hatch door on the side of the bar and squeezed his portly body through the narrow gap. He reached me in two long strides, bodies parting like the sea before Moses and clapped a hand to my shoulder with such force that I staggered under the weight of it. “Your lad was startin’ to get worried up there, just on me way to give ‘im a drop of me finest red, calm ‘im down a bit like, settle the old nerves”. He winked and waggled the bottle under my nose most suggestively. It was of the same type we had procured on that fateful night, and which had been so instrumental in the downfall of my innocence. How drunk we had been then, how enraptured with one another. My heart swelled yet again .

 

Mr Oxley smiled down at me, old eyes crinkled at the corners in genuine pleasure at our reunion, and I took but a moment to notice that he too was decked out more finely than such a work-a-day evening should warrant. “Up we go then lads” he said, unlocking the door with a small brass key, and motioning us through in front of him. He closed the door behind us and locked the door again. We climbed up the staircase, Mr Oxley, then I, with Tom bringing up the rear. It was a most strange procession, I felt.

 

What was I to make of this? Why was I to be chaperoned to a tryst with my lover?

 

If that was what it would turn out to be, for now I had the most serious misgivings. I could feel my legs wobble as we climbed up to the floor above, shoes clattering upon the bare wooden treads and Tom, mindful of every change in my bearing set a warm firm hand at the small of my back to urge me onward.

 

At last after what seemed an interminable climb, we reached the landing before the door to our old room, as I had expected. Mr Oxley paused and looked back at me, and knocked upon the wooden frame three times, an ear pressed close waiting for a signal from inside. We heard scuffling from beyond, and then the handle turned from the inside. The broad, smiling face of Oliver, Mr Oxley’s partner and lover peered around the frame.

 

I strained to see past him, impatient, and my eyes caught the glint of John’s soft golden hair in the light of a candle. The door opened wide and at last I could see the scene laid out before me. The bed where we had slept had been pushed to the side of the room under the window, the dresser, chaise and chairs all pushed back against the walls. John sat nervously on the edge of the mattress, hands twisting in his lap, skin drained white and a sheen of fresh sweat upon his forehead.

 

His head shot up as we entered the room and he leapt to his feet, a hand clasped tightly to the bedpost for balance. But his face beamed with joy when he saw me standing, with that wide unguarded smile that made his bright eyes crinkle most endearingly.

 

“Sherlock!” he rose and came towards me, and it was then that I noticed the other occupants of the room, as well as Mr Oxley, Oliver and Tom, there was Sarah in a pretty rose-pink dress, our good friend Charles and tall, thin man in plain black robes and gold-framed pince-nez.

 

My breath caught in my throat for I knew what this was about. I had heard tell of course, of such things as are whispered in dark rooms and secret places, brought to prominence of late with a spate of raids by the Bow Street Runners; I had read the reports of arrests and prosecutions in the broadsheets on a near daily basis. My stomach fluttered nervously as the magnitude of what was proposed took root inside my breast.

 

“Sherlock”, John said tenderly, “ Please tell me if I act out of turn…if this is abhorrent to you, and if that is the case we will not go on, we will have a merry celebration with the dearest of friends and speak no more on this”.

 

“But John…”

 

“Please”, he interrupted, “Know that I mean it with all my heart. You are my family, the only one I will ever want or need, and though the world may not recognise or tolerate our love I wish to share this with you”. He voice began to falter then, and he bent down to one knee before me. My eyes grew hot and stinging and my throat grew tight, and I feared that speech would elude me. He bent and pressed a kiss, soft and warm upon the back of my hand.

 

“Will you marry me?”


	15. If I Should Fall

“Will you marry me?”

 

I stared at his hand where it held onto my own and up to his face creased with a mixture of both hope and fear. The room around us was silent as those who had gathered held a collective breath. Every eye was fixed upon us, the air thick with the thrill of expectation. But I could not form the words. My mouth had gone dry as the desert itself, and John let go of my hand and stepped back again, uncertain.

 

“Forgive me,” he cast his eyes down,  “you think I mean to mock you, make light of what we have…I know we cannot make this real in law, I know it may cost us our lives, but Sherlock, please believe me I speak the truth, every word, I want this more than anything….I could not bear to….”

 

“Yes”, I interrupted, my voice rendered rough and deep with emotion, I could no longer bear to see him struggle so. “Yes, yes! A thousand times yes! John Watson you did scare me…I thought, I thought….” But in truth I did not what it was that I thought, beyond the fact that my John loved me, and had offered me his hand.

 

John gave a strangled cry of relief and pulled me into his arms, “Oh Sherlock, I am the happiest of men”.

 

“Thank the lord!” Mr Oxley cried, “And my apologies in advance lads, even as I am most humbly honoured and all that to witness this glorious joining and whatnot….but can we make it snappy like, just in cases”. He cast a nervous glance at the door.

 

The gentleman in black cleared his throat and stepped forward, sliding the pince-nez to the end of his nose. “Sir”, he nodded to John, and then “Sir”, he nodded in my direction also. “It will be my pleasure this evening to join your two hands in marriage. John puffed out his chest a little my right hand held loosely in his left.

 

“Not holy though  parson….herher” chuckled Oxley, receiving a sharp dig in the ribs and a stern look from Sarah, though how she even came to be there I had no idea. But neither did I mind her presence for she had been a valuable friend.

 

“Quite” the parson said, losing his stiff and formal countenance as his lips turned up into a smile. “Who gives this…man…to be joined in wedlock?” he asked the question to the room at large and I blushed as his eyes swept the assembled guests.

 

Tom stepped forward, “I do sir” he said beaming and stole a quick glance to John and I, “That is if the young gent don’t mind”.

 

Why would I mind? Tom was as family to me now, and in the absence of my true kin, wherever the world may conceal him from my notice, my kind companion would be a most fitting envoy. And in John, I fancied, Mycroft would wholly approve in my choice of companion.

 

“Brother’s,” said I, “We are all brothers are we not? I can think of none here more fitted for the task”.

 

“Most excellent,” said the parson, “And I thank you sir,” he bowed slightly to Tom who nodded his assent with a broad warm smile in John’s direction. We were ready.

 

And so the parson began. “Dear friends we are gathered here today to witness the joining of hands, of John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes…..”

 

I must confess I remember little of the rites themselves, just the low droning buzz of the parsons voice as he read the words that would serve to bind us to each other for an eternity, words that the law would censure, words that would condemn us to the hangman’s noose or the pestilential purgatory of a dank filthy cell at Newgate. How was I deemed worthy of this honour, this sacrifice, this depth of devotion, the utter, utter madness of it all? I understood it was no rash choice made in haste at the turn of events which had estranged John from the bosom of his ancestral home and his birthright. No, much truth could be read in the secrecy of his movements over many a month. Afternoons spent without me at his side, the guilt in recent days not from the act of concealment itself, but knowing full well that much of the outlay for this day may have sustained us for many more weeks in the style we had both become accustomed to. But the fortune, such as it was, had gone now, that last of it I’m sure for the carriage that had brought me here. But I wouldn’t have changed this for the world for it stilled the ache in my chest and stifled the cruel voice that plagued me both waking and unconsciously that this was not real after all, however much I willed it so, that Mr V had the right of it and John would never be mine to keep by my side, that it was a lie that I had ever meant the same to him, and he would never want it in the end, want me. And I would not be thwarted, I would not be cast aside and accept my role as mere plaything and whore for men to use for their pleasure. Neither would I be usurped by the pretty feminine wiles thrown in his path time and time again with intent to mock and sneer. There would be no prize for Miss Morstan, not on this day or any hereafter. John was truly mine now.

 

“And now you may make your vow to one another, and to those that are gathered here today to bear witness to your union.”

 

“Sherlock,” John turned to address me. I could feel the tremble in his arm as he caught up my hand in his. “Know this, that my heart has been yours since the very first moment I laid my eyes upon you. And from that moment forward, you have surprised me and distracted me, captivated and challenged me in a way that no other has ever done or ever will. You are my partner in crime and in passion and know that I love you always and forever with every beat of my heart.”

 

How was I to answer? What could I say to match such sentiment so tenderly expressed?

 

John squeezed my hand lightly, and smiled in encouragement, “To have your hand is all that I’d hoped for.” He pressed his palm into mine and wound our fingers together. “Please do not feel that you need speak further, that you stand by my side is all that I could ask or could want.”

 

I shook my head, willing my body into calmness. I would speak. I would not leave such sweet words unanswered. I must try, I must. And so I began, tongue tripping but a little as the words that I held in my heart bled out. “That very first moment, on that very first day, it was not into my ear you whispered, but my heart, and it was not my lips you kissed, but my soul. I wish to stay with you always, wherever life may lead us, but if we should ever be parted, promise we will always return to one another.”

 

“Always,” John smiled, “I believe I once told you, I would tear the world apart to find my way back to your side.”

 

The parson cleared his throat then, breaking the spell between us.  “I believe there are rings to exchange are there not?”

 

Tom stepped forward with a folded square of ebony velvet in hand. He unwrapped it carefully in his palm and there in the centre nestled two slim golden bands in the midst of a coil of delicate chain.

 

John took up the first and dropped it gently in my palm, and curled my fingers over it. Then he took up the second ring and raised my left hand, the candlelight picking out a delicate inscription on the inside of the band which read, ‘ _all my love, always, JW’_. He slipped it on my finger, the third from the left. The fit was perfection. It was truly beautiful.

 

Then I took up the other in turn, rolling it slightly in my fingertips, feeling the weight, the warmth of the softly burnished metal. It was wider than the other, made for a thicker more masculine hand than my own. It also bore the mark of an inscription, words John had chosen in my stead, ‘ _for my SH – until the world should end’._

 

“These rings are a symbol of unity in which these two lives are now joined in one unbroken circle,”the parson intoned.

 

I understood. Never could we wear them openly, never in polite society. It would fail to go unnoticed when we two were in each other’s sole company far more often than decorum should dictate we be together. And with no pretty sweetheart and no hint of an engagement or favoured attachment to a member of the opposite sex to speak of…well…the dullest of minds could deduce the true nature of our friendship. Our association already had cause to risk at least John his reputation. I cared little for the good opinion of others outside our small circle of acquaintance, but while the name of Watson still held sway in town I would do what I could to prevent him from falling foul of the stinging barb of scandal. The taint of notoriety had already marred my line but it may prove yet to our advantage that the misdeeds of my father in the name of Holmes were but now a faded memory in the eyes of those who care for such matters.

 

“When we are not alone wear it close to your heart,” John whispered, leaning in closer, “And I in my turn will do likewise. It will satisfy me greatly to know that no eye may look upon it but mine, and that while hidden, it is warmed by the blood and skin beneath your clothes that only I may touch.”

 

A clearing of throats and the scarcely concealed snuffling brought us back to ourselves, and I blushed with the intimacy of what had passed between us. Worthington called out a request that the bride should now be kissed according to tradition, and Oxley parried back with a hearty guffaw, exclaiming neither of us fit to play the part of blushing maid. Sarah mopped at her tears, and our dear friend Tom proposed we raise a toast instead in celebration.

 

“Yes, let us drink to health and happiness, and the mysteries of the heart of man”. Glasses were raised and at the first touch of wine to my tongue I remembered another place, another night and how it all could have gone so badly had a certain gentleman not come to my aid (Let that be a timely reminder of the fleeting nature of our life and love) And so I sipped lightly, mindful of my propensity to indulge to excess, and still it set my head spinning. There would be more, I was sure, but when we were alone, away from the watchful gaze of our gathered friends.

 

“Much as I am loathe top pour cold water on our happy little gatherin’, tongues’ll be set a waggin’ if I stay up ‘ere much longer.”

 

John bowed in thanks to Oxley and replied “Then a give you my thanks once more, for your assistance and your generous hospitality, this is all that I ever could have wished for.”

 

I knew at once that it was not all, there was another wish in his heart, one not for public consumption.

 

The happy group began to disperse, to meet again in the bustle on the lower floor. Oliver and Oxley went first, the excuse for their absence being the turning out of these vacant lodgings with clean bedding, sweeping out, changing candles and the like. Charles, ever the noble young bachelor proposed to see Sarah down in safety, and Tom was the last, torn between the urge to depart and grant us a moment of privacy and his sorrow at being parted once more from our company.

 

“I thank you John,” he began, “It was never my wish to see Sherlock live a life such as mine from the very first moment I saw him. It was a blessing that you stayed that night, drunk as you were, pressing forward for a last glance and a name. Even a blind fool could see how you were made for one another but don’t ever hurt him young sir, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

 

“And not a threat to take lightly! Never Tom, you have my word.”

 

They shook. Tom’s large palm enfolding John’s smaller hand.

 

“Will you not stay a while,” I asked. Tom shifted his gaze, no longer quite able to meet my eye. His fingers clutched tight to the brim of his hat. “I dearly wish it lad, but I’ll be missed at the house you see.”

 

Tough I knew it to be so, anger flared on Tom’s behalf. And if it weren’t for John’s grounding touch, the hand upon my wrist I should have flown at him, thrown my arms about his neck and begged him stay awhile and bear the harridan’s wrath. She could not best him, my loyal, strong Tom, but yet he swayed to her call nonetheless like a prisoner. I could not bear it.

 

“Let us not dwell on that which we cannot change Sherlock, for this a happy night. I will see you soon enough, god willing.”

 

He paused then, wrestling with something in his heart and finally with a soft sigh of resignation leant forward and kissed me softly on the cheek. And with a last swift nod to John, and a flash of wonder in his eyes that he had not been thought to take liberties, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. We were alone.

 

“Shall we stay here a while?” John pulled me into his arms as the sound of Tom’s footsteps receded down the staircase. “I must confess, I had truly feared you would be angry, that all my plans would come to nought. I was sure you would find me out, you know, but you’ve been most distracted of late.”

 

“It is the case,” I said, nestling my head in the crook of his neck. He arched back a little, and wrapped his arms tight about my waist. Softly, gently, he stroked at the curls about my nape, my skin tingled at the touch, a warmth spreading out to envelop me as he gently traced the line of my jaw, the thumb brushing along the fullness of my lips. I let out a soft sigh of contentment and rocked forward, pressing my mouth to his, almost chaste.

 

A door opened somewhere down below, a blast of voices raised in song. John kissed me again, slow and deep this time, parting my lips with his tongue and teasing my own with soft flicks enough to make me melt against him. His hand stole down my spine, pressing in the small of my back to draw me flush against him. He was hard just from his mouth on mine, and I felt his hot prick trapped beneath his clothes, against my hip. Thrusting forward, he moaned, and the hand that had been at my waist, sprang up and pulled my head back, grabbing at a fistful of my hair. “Ah!” I gasped, as he mouthed along the length of my jaw, and set at my neck with nips and licks that set my skin ablaze. He meant to mark me, where anyone could see. The thought should have scared, not thrilled, I should have thrown him off not pressed myself closer. The urge to feel overwhelmed, and I stole a hand in between our writhing bodies, dipping down between his legs. John shuddered, helpless, and buried his head in the crook of my neck. Deft fingers made light work of the placket of his breeches and my fingers made contact with firm, silken flesh sticky with his desire. “The door,” he panted, voice rough with arousal.

 

“The danger thrills you,” I teased, “I know what you crave. That we might be caught, that someone might be watching…” he stuffed a fist in his mouth. “And what if I did this….?” I dropped to my knees, keeping up a relentless rhythm, and bent my head forward to taste him. At the very first flick of my tongue there came a burst of warm, salty fluid. And still I took him in, suckled lightly at the head, dipped my tongue into the pulsing slit while he cursed and called me angel in the very same breath. I had learned my lessons well, could play every inch of his body.

 

He pulled me to my feet and said darkly, “It is your turn. Now take off your clothes, I need to see you.”

 

Despite what he said, John set about disrobing me quite of his own accord. And whilst I teased him for such a display of impatience, I let his hands roam over me, touching and stroking, felt the light, stinging scratch of the stubble on his chin as he peeled off my jacket, then waistcoat, then shirt, mouthing each inch of skin that was uncovered. Kisses pressed down the length of my spine which made me arch and gasp and curse him beneath my breath but more of a benediction in nature than from any desire for him to stop. And he did not stop, continued as I knew, and yes, hoped that he would. He looped a hand around my chest and traced his fingertip over the ring while his dominant left hand slid down, down, beyond the curve of my back stealing beneath the boundary of my smallclothes.

 

“Touch me, you have to touch me, please John,” I gasped.

 

“Touch you where?” he said, “Here perhaps?”

 

His hand fell away from my chest and cupped the hardness between my legs instead.

 

Glass smashed somewhere in the tavern below and we heard the sound of voices raised in anger. And then a noise set to chill the very marrow in your bones; the short sharp blast of a whistle.

 

“The Runners,” John gasped, “It is a raid.” He looked wildly about him, at the door that concealed us, the wide iron bedstead pressed close to the wall, the dresser in the corner, barely of a size to hide a child, and then the window, the sash pulled down flush against the early evening London smog. He tucked in his shirt and I buttoned his breeches, fumbling in my haste. He picked up my shirt from the floor, my waistcoat and jacket from the end of the bed and threw them across the room to me. There was no question in our minds of the danger we were in, and so we both rushed over to the window, tugging at ancient, damp-swollen wood.

 

“We must leave, they cannot find us here,” John cried, “Think on it Sherlock. Has ever this place been turned out in this way that you can recall?”

 

“I have never heard tell of it.”

 

“What if the parson were seen, what if it were broadcast, the absence of the patrons? I have cast you in the path of danger with my plans and schemes that you had no part in, and I will not forgive myself if it lead you to harm.”

 

“It will not,” I said in earnest, “our friends would not reveal us, and besides, there is nothing to see here nor to accuse us of.”

 

“Sherlock, this is no game, no childish folly. The Runner’s do not seek proof…the question of indecent conduct will be for the judge to decide. I will not be joined to you this night only to be ripped from your side and to risk your beautiful neck at the noose. I could not live, I could not bear it.” He tore his hands through his hair in anguish and turned away again.

 

I continued to struggle, and with one final push the wood gave and jerked upward an inch, enough to get our hands beneath and force it up the rest of the way.

 

“We have left no trace of indecent conduct,” I said, “we are fully clothed, but for the rings….”

 

With widened eyes John snatched at my hand and drew the ring off my finger. He took out the folded square of velvet and uncoiled a chain from within. Unclasping it, he slipped it through the narrow band of gold, and then beckoned me close to him, and looped it around my neck. With his own he did the same, and hastily tucked them both beneath our shirts. My hand felt unbearably naked again.

 

John saw my face fall, and pressed his palm to my cheek. “It is safer this way. We cannot risk the judge love. We have a life to live out, a future to build together. We will find your brother Mycroft and we will all depart to the country. London will never be safe for us, there are too many expectations, conventions, it is best that we should leave, visit France perhaps, or Italy.”

 

I was poised to agree when the door burst open at our backs. The handle smashed into the wall and left a crumbling hole in the plaster.

 

It was Charles. “My friends!  The doors are barred, none leaves but to the satisfaction of the Runners and the grave news I bear is Lestrade is among them. You will not go unnoticed.”

 

“What business have they here?” John said, his eyes on the now-open door, as if at any moment, the law would burst through and clap us both in cuffs. My mind said we should hear their approach while my body screamed out with the urge to run, and run, and run far away from this London.

 

“Opium I heard tell,” I heard Charles say, “and the suspicion of immoral activity. For the two to go hand in hand is most commonplace these days. Some of the patrons, ah, raised their objections and that is the disturbance you can hear.”

 

“What of Oxley, Sarah, Tom?” I found my voice and interrupted.

 

“I know not of Oxley,” he shot back at me, “the others departed safely in a carriage I procured but an hour ago, well before the Runner’s came. Tom is under instruction to see the maid back to Duke Street first and the carriage will move on to Covent Garden. There is no need for alarm, it is well in hand.”

 

“Then we must thank you for your kindness Charles.”

 

“It is not a concern,” he waved his hand to dismiss our appreciation. “It brought me great joy to see you both happy. And John, I hope you understand how much I deeply regret my part in throwing Miss Morstan in your path, and for giving Sherlock cause to doubt your constancy. Forgive me. For that was never my intention.”

 

“For myself I see nothing to forgive, you have acquitted yourself admirably and have done us great service for which I’ll be forever in your debt. But now you must consider your own safety,” John said.

 

Charles gestured to his lawyers clothes, a sober black waistcoat and overcoat, and trousers of a deep charcoal grey. “The eye skips over unremarkable things. It would not be seen out of turn for me to drink here after a day at the Bar, but your finery catches the eye does it not? It will make your presence here of note.”

 

John crossed to the window once more and peered. “Is there no other way?”

 

Charles shook his head. “It would be a great risk, the way may be guarded. You have the right idea, I see, the window is the most expedient route. Take the red gate to the left of the yard, there you will find assistance and safe passage….I have ensured as much, but you must make haste,” Charles urged, “go now. I will come to no harm I assure you.”

 

I peered out upon the scene below. The yard was steeped in darkness, empty and silent. The street lamps glowed amber in the damp smoggy air brought in on the late evening tide. I turned my head, and could not see further than two houses to the left or right of us which would prove to our advantage if the Runners should attempt a pursuit. It was better than I’d hoped, and I could see John’s indecision as to whether he should go before me, but a clatter of boots on the stairs decided the matter for us and with a final nod of agreement straddled the sill together.

 

“Don’t look down,” said John, “Look to the right. If I swing out but a little, there is a low flat roof, it belongs to the scullery does it not?”

 

I saw it, careful not to let my eyes stray further, and nodded my agreement. We were two stories high and the cobbles beneath us were hard and unyielding, a fall could be fatal. I swallowed thickly as John lowered himself carefully over the edge, boots scraping for purchase against the brick whilst the rotten wooden sill crumbled off beneath his fingertips. He swung out a leg and my breath caught in my chest.

 

“John!,” I gasped, heart racing.

 

Not far enough. He swung back again, building up momentum like the rhythmic swing of the pendulum, and in a leap of faith or of recklessness, his hands parted company with the lip of the sill, his body twisting through the air to land with a clatter on the scullery roof. It sent broken shards of slate skittering down into the yard. A dog down the street began to bark at the noise. John crouched, cat-like and panting hard, waiting for the animal to calm before drawing himself up to his fullest height once more. He stretched out his arms to me, and beckoned. “Sherlock, come!”

 

With the fear of the law at our backs, I cast one last desperate look of pure gratitude at Charles. He’d turned the key inside the lock to afford us every extra second that could aid in our escape. I eased my other leg across and twisted my body around and then down, only the insufficient strength of my forearms to support me, my legs dangling loose in the air. I fought the panic rising in my chest. I did not possess John’s courage, I had not the strength in body or in mind, nor his agility. “Sherlock,” he whispered to me, quiet and calm and determined. “Look at me Sherlock, don’t look down. I will not let you fall, I swear it.”

 

He drew as close to the edge as he dared, more slate smashing down into the dark yard below. I thought only of his voice and saw only his hands and the sure steady gaze as he bid me begin the descent as he had done. I swung out, not far enough, and then again and again, but I could not set the rhythm as he had. My arms slipped, my meagre strength fading, and the scarred wood scored my flesh through coat and shirt alike.

 

“Sherlock, be brave as I know you are,” he said again, “Let go now love, I will catch you.” With a huff and a whine, a noise likened to a frightened child I dropped down and swung out wildly to the side, felt a hand at my hip and another at my waist. He held me fast, fingers clasped hard enough to bruise - and with good cause, for the momentum bowled us over, and we fell, and slid along the ruined slope of the scullery roof. And still I did not stop, slipping over the edge on my back. My knees took the worst of it, and John dropped down on his haunches beside me. Heart pounding with the exertion we crouched in the shadow of the privy wall and watched as a head popped out through the window.

 

There was barely time to catch our breath. As Charles had said, a red gate stood off to the right, and hovering by was a small, skinny figure, a boy of no more than ten. He ushered us through, wide-eyed, and from thence into the back door of the terraced house beyond, up a steep narrow staircase, through an empty room with only bare sacking cloth on the floor, through an adjoining door to a short wooden ladder leading up to an attic.

 

I could see our way through. Beams of wood criss-crossed before us in the roof space, and at the juncture, where one house met the other there was a narrow crawl-space in the brick. We went down on hands and knees, balanced carefully on the wooden struts, crawling and shuffling our way forward through choking dust and cobweb alike.

 

The attic boards were too fragile to stand upon lest we be cast into the room below. It was a precariously balancing act, the wood biting hard into our knees as we progressed, the stench of wood-smoke drifting from the chimneys somewhere far below, the bricks all blackened with soot.

 

Being slighter in build I went through first. The attic beyond was much the same with an almost overpowering scent of effluent on the air.

 

“How much further,” I asked, “and however shall we find our way out again?”

 

“The terrace is but six more houses long this way, but there is another, a young guide like the last to guide us back to the thoroughfare.”

 

True to his word, through the next attic space we saw a face in shadow, young and filthy, wide-eyed and hollow-cheeked. The child waved an arm to us and we hastened onward for the last dusty stretch, and shimmied down a thick knotted rope looped over a straining oak beam above our heads. John glanced at me anxiously. But here I needed no assistance. I had played such games in my childhood in Lancashire but the beam was branch of a gnarled and ancient oak tree, just beyond the grounds of the manor. With swift, sure movements, hand over hand, I dropped to the landing first. John came after, and standing just below afforded a spectacular view of his thighs. I thought of them, gripped around my hips as he straddled me, muscles flexing, I felt the colour rise to my cheeks and turned my head away, and blew lightly on my burning palms as if doing so would cool my heated blood.

 

I avoided his eyes as we made our way down yet another flight of stairs, and the people in the house below, a small family of four hungry children neither noted nor seemed in the least perturbed by our presence. I wished to repay them for their kindness, but John, as ever knew my mind and offered up some coin to the lady of the house. But she would not meet our eyes. It was not ingratitude, neither was it deference. If she did not see our faces we were never here at all.

 

The back street was unlit and deep in darkness all the better to cover our retreat as John took up my hand to pull me onward, following the boy. The noise from the tavern was but a distant hum by now, the faded yellow lights and sound muffled by the fog that for once, I found favourable even as it crept inside my lungs. It set me to coughing, and with head bent, better to stifle the noise in my sleeve we passed swiftly through a narrow, piss-soaked alley-way and back out onto the thoroughfare where he promptly melted back into the shadows and was gone again.

 

We rounded the corner and blended in with the evening crowd outside the market place. The stalls were standing empty, replaced at this time of night with all manner of street hawker touting for business. Ladies, gaudy-bright in taffetas and silks, not wholly suited for the night-time air of London stood beneath the shadowed awnings to ply their trade to those who come searching for such comforts. There were boys too, some with painted faces, smooth hairless chests bared with shirts buttoned down to the waist, and girls dressed in men’s clothes, their hair pinned and tucked beneath flat caps; something or someone to suit every proclivity. And but for John’s timely intervention I could have been among them.

 

“You are not the same,” said John, reading my mind with an ease bordering on embarrassing. Was I truly so transparent?  “Mrs Turner treated you abominably, but you must know by reputation her house is deemed respectable within my circle, and when I came upon you, you were still pure, an innocent. There is nothing to be shamed by, or to make me think any less of you, and if anything could prove that, I can only hope this night has.”

 

John pulled off his kerchief and set to wiping at my brow and cheeks where the dust and dirt from the attic had streaked them, the white cloth quickly turned grey. He took his turn, folding the cloth and wetting it with spittle, what remained we both hoped that the darkness would conceal.

 

A carriage turned into the street, the lamp at the front unlit. John ran at pace, raised his arm for it to draw to a halt, and he wrenched at the door, and bundled me inside before him where we both collapsed onto the padded green velvet cushions. I lay at a stretch across one side, taking heaving breaths of fuggy, smoky, tobacco scented air. John pressed his head back face raised up to the ceiling, his legs were splayed wide and his back had slouched low, arms resting atop his thighs. He sighed and closed his eyes, breath still heaving from our exertions.

 

 “I am sorry Sherlock. It is hardly what I’d had in my mind for our wedding night.”

 

“How fortunate is it then, that we have the rest of our lives.”

 

~*~

 


	16. A Parting Of The Ways

A quiet sort of bliss settled over us after our night of high adventure, (and perhaps that alone should have given me pause – but how was I to know dear friends, what was to come?) For many more days than I cared to keep count of we barely left our rooms, doing little else but eat as we needed to, sleep and fuck in an endless languid cycle until I barely could stir without wincing at the dull ache in my muscles. There was little of the first on my part despite John’s continuing frustration and copious amounts of the latter of course, a fug of sweat and sex pervading the air of our chambers and a most alarming increase in our laundry bill which we could little afford. It was just as well then, that soon after John received a formal invitation to take up the position of clerk at Charles’ chambers. Charles called by himself to bring the news, late one Friday evening, and after making ourselves decent for the first time in days, spent a merry few hours in our company, leaving red-faced and drunk sometime in the early hours. And quite how he made the journey unmolested is a story for another time.

 

A knock on the door came early the next morning, and at first I imagined our friend come to call again at such an ungodly hour. I was wrong. It was not a confident, hard rap of knuckles, nor the tentative tap that Sarah was wont to give before she would come to raise a fire in the grate after bringing our morning breakfast tray. There was urgency behind it, sharp and insistent, a rat-a-tat-tat from a feminine hand. John raised his head from the pillow with a groan.

 

“Who is it?” he said, voice still rough with sleep.

 

“I’m sorry sir, Master Watson sir, there’s a message for you, brought by rider.”

 

We blinked at each other in confusion. John sat up, alert, and as Sarah opened the door a crack he swung out of bed and padded, bare footed, the short distance to meet her. He plucked the letter from her outstretched hand. “Thank you Sarah, if that will be all,” he said, in a voice little sharper than his usual tone, making it clear he wished her to leave, and leave quickly. His eyes remained fixed on the note in his hand. She dropped a quick curtsey, stealing at glance in my direction, failing to hide the hurt in her eyes to be dismissed in such a fashion. It was not like him. Indeed he did not look well, I thought. The rosy flush to his skin, which I had lately put there had drained from his face, and in its place had left a sickly white pallor. John closed the door and leaned heavily against the frame, and but for his bare feet braced firmly on the wooden boards, he may have slid to the ground he appeared so boneless.

 

“What news?” I asked carefully, curling up on my side, with the blankets pulled tight beneath my chin. I was almost afraid to hear him speak.

 

“It is in my father’s hand.” John said, in a hollow distracted voice, his brow knit tight with tension. He drifted back toward the bed and sat down on his side again. Sliding his thumb beneath the heavy wax seal to break it, he carefully unfolded the square of yellow parchment. His eyes traced quickly across the words on the page and I squirmed with impatience while he read it, and read it again, and yet again a third time and watched his face grow ever paler. With each pass across the page my apprehension grew. What bile and vitriol, what wicked schemes had the monster devised to so unnerve him? I sat up a little, propped on one elbow and slid my free arm around his waist and pressed a cool palm to his chest, over where his heart lay. His skin was smooth, warm and his heart beat rabbit-fast against my palm. He was afraid, and that alone scared me. His face however, was a careful mask of composure, the only discernible evidence of his distress a barely imperceptible pulsing in his cheek. It flickered as his jaw clenched tight.

 

“Would you like me too…?” I asked, pointing to the letter in his lap. “Ah no, it is fine,” he said, attempting to smile. He raised a hand and brushed his fingers across my cheek, but I could not ignore the tight, unnatural upturn of his lips that accompanied the gesture. He lapsed into silence again.

 

I waited.

 

And try as I might, the fact that he wished to conceal his concern and not to show himself to me was enough to make my own gut lurch with unease. The gooseflesh that rose on my forearms, I felt, came from more than just the morning chill and the fact that I was undressed.

 

“It is my grandmother,” he said at last, with a sigh, “She is taken gravely ill and asks that I go to her.” He crumpled the letter in his fist. “If she…,” he started, searching for a way to continue, eyes darting, “If she dies Sherlock, before I see her….if I thought for one second that I have been the cause of this….”

 

“No, you are not. How could you think such a thing? ” I said firmly, pulling him tighter to me.

 

John sighed, sinking back a little, and rubbed his hand back and forth over mine. “But Sherlock,” he said, “You know my father’s nature. God knows what lies he may have told her.”

 

“It is the fever John, a condition of the body, not the mind….no words however cruel the intent could have caused this.”

 

“I wish I could believe that. But a sickness of the mind can weaken the body. You of all people should know this. And she is old and may have thought I’d deserted her. I should not have left it so long. I’ve been so selfish.” He shrugged out of my embrace then and stood, beginning to pace.

 

“Then go to her,” I said in earnest, sitting up, sheets pooled around my waist, “Put your mind, and hers at ease.” At the next my voice was more hesitant, “And if you are amenable, please impress upon your father that I bear him no ill will…. and perhaps we may yet make amends with him. Is it not beyond hope that he might yet see reason?”

 

“Perhaps,” John echoed my own words, lips tilted in the slightest of smiles as he looked at me in wonderment, “But you do not know him as I do. You are much too generous of nature to think he may be capable of compassion or forgiveness. How can it be that you wish to mend bridges, while I, his son, would itch to put a pistol to his head? I would never forgive him, even if he begged me on his knees for what he did to you.”

 

I did not answer, but thought of the box beneath his bed and the weapon that lay within it. Would I try to stop him…could I, if he left this room with murderous intent?

 

“May I?” I asked carefully, and crawling to the end of the bed I plucked the letter from his hand. I read it over, swiftly, finding it much as he’d said. Lady Watson had fallen ill but a week ago, and had now succumbed to a fever. The physician had attended and declared there was nothing further to be done but wait, and in her delirium she had asked to have her grandson at her side at the last. There was a still a small chance, but her fate now rested in God’s hands. “Will you go then?”

 

John looked at me and sighed deeply, resigned. “Aye, I will go, as I must, as I wish to. She was the only good thing I left behind in that house, but you must pray Sherlock, that he does not cross my path or I’ll not be held responsible for the consequences, truly.”

 

“You cannot mean it.” I said, horrified, “I refuse to believe it.”

 

“That I could kill the man who tried to ruin you….even if he were my own father?” He shook his head and laughed. “Then perhaps you don’t know me at all, love.”

 

He dressed swiftly, pulling his nightshirt over his head and discarding it on the end of the bed. The ring he then hung on its chain against his chest, quickly covered by first shirt, and then waistcoat and finally a light linen overcoat.

 

“Oh don’t look so dour. You will hardly miss me I’m sure,” he said, fishing shoes from beneath the bed and sitting by me to pull them on. He knew well that I had set the day aside to look through all the papers I had gathered on my brother’s disappearance. There were the dailies to scour, which we often did together, and if the weather held, a trip to the dockside markets to speak with the urchins who would play my eyes and ears for a penny. But John was wrong. I would feel his loss keenly as I always did, this time with an edge of concern that some harm may befall him at his father’s hand. Such fears kept at bay only by the thought that even a monster such as Weston would balk before duelling over his own mother’s deathbed. John, I was sure, would never seek to dishonour her in that way despite what he had said to me.

 

He kissed me once before we parted.  Tilting up my chin, he pressed our lips together. It was light and chaste at first, but John growled, and it grew deeper, more urgent until he kissed me so breathless that I was the one to break it. “When you return,” I said panting, pushing him firmly away.

 

 “When I return,” he echoed, a little sadly, I thought. And then the moment passed and his mask fell back into place. His jaw clenched tight again, and with a final flourish, he pressed his hat upon his head, strode across the room, and was gone. The door snicked shut behind him. I tried not to think how much it felt like a goodbye.

 

And so I sat, until the warmth of the bed left my skin and my body was wracked with the shivers, and only then did I dress myself, ring down for the breakfast tray and set my mind to the work once more.

 

~*~

 

The weather quickly turned and I did not go out. Indeed, I confess I barely even noticed as the light, bright skies of morning gave way to a heavy, persistent rain, battering against the window. Sarah brought luncheon at one, but by half past four when she came to fetch the tray and bring in high tea as was our custom, it remained where she’d placed it, the cold-cuts curling and dried at the edges and bread rolls turned as hard as rocks. Without John there to prompt me it was easy to ignore my body’s needs and ate only when the noise of my belly sought to drown out the thoughts in my head.

 

Rubbing at my eyes, I stretched my legs out with a wince when Sarah came back to light the lamps that evening.

 

“Goodness Master Sherlock, have you been down there all day,” she said, offering a hand to haul me up from the rug.

 

“I hardly noticed," I said, stretching, "Is it very late?”

 

I stamped my feet to banish the numbness from my limbs, and groaned as the blood flowed freely and a flood of feeling rushed back in, skin prickling like ants across my flesh. It was late, much later than I’d thought, and by the flickering of the candles could just make out the time - the clock on the mantle said nine.

 

“Is Master Watson expected back tonight?” she asked as she bustled about the room, collecting up the unwanted food and piling it onto a sturdy wooden tray to carry down into the kitchen. “I could rustle up something cold if he wants but not after twelve you’ll have to tell him.”

 

“He didn’t say,” I answered absently. “I don’t suppose he can, considering. It’s his grandmother, she is ill” I added in response to her frown, “I expect that he will stay until the danger has passed, or…” I broke off then, mind skittering over the bleak alternative.

 

Sarah frowned, “Oh! Then we must both say a prayer tonight. I’m sorry sir – Sherlock, I mean - I’ll leave you be now….sleep well.” She turned to go and I was alone again.

 

But sleep eluded me that night. I paced and paced the floor, up and down, stepping on the papers I had yet to clear away, carelessly crushing them underfoot, hands curled tightly in my hair. The thought of our bed without him was intolerable, so at the very last, when my eyes began to close where I stood, and my whole body trembled with fatigue, I took a blanket from the ottoman and curled up on the chaise instead, in a tight ball with my arms about my knees. I cannot say I slept even then, watching heavy lidded as the light slowly changed from grey to blackest night, then drifting on toward dawn, as the muted orange glow seeped through the heavy drapes to cast sinister shadows in every corner of the room.

 

As time crept on, sickening sense of dread settled over me. A seed that had taken root within sometime in the witching hour and had grown to consume my every thought, so much so, I thought I would surely go mad from it. John should have sent word by now. It scared me that he had not, once back within the clutches of his father. I imagined crossed words, and that they’d fought hand to hand. In my mind’s eye I saw knives and swords, perhaps a pistol drawn, pressed hard against a temple. I had lost myself in a fantasy of blood and gore and anger and revenge. I could not see the truth of it, the true purpose of our separation, of John, sitting silent by his grandmother’s sickbed, holding her hand and wiping her brow as he prayed for the fever to break and for God to spare her life. My fear of abandonment had rendered me selfish and I hated my own weakness.

 

But I could not work, and neither could I rest until I knew how things stood.

 

If John could not come to me then I would have to go to him - but I could not go there alone.

 

I must call on Tom, and ask for his assistance. He would not be missed at the house at this hour.

 

With a course of action fixed, I could not sit idle. I dressed myself in haste, washed quickly, ran a damp cloth over my face and neck, wiping sweat and grime and John from my body. I meant to set out for St James’ square with intent to take a carriage from the avenue. But as is the way with the dogs at your heels, Mrs Davis blocked my way upon the stair. 

 

“In a hurry to be somewhere dear? she asked, keen eyes sweeping the length of my body.

 

“What of it?” I answered, conscious how flushed and unkempt I must appear. I smoothed down my coat and ran my fingers through my hair and felt annoyance at myself for even caring what she might think.

 

“Ah well, you see,” she said, “If you’ve gone and lost that young man of yours I could always find a way to make sure you was alright, you know.”

 

My cheeks burned. I understood the implication. She had already guessed we did not have her money, but had reckoned how to make more. “Two weeks the rent is overdue dear – or else there are others who’d be willing to take up your burden, I’m sure, pretty face like yours.”

 

“And you shall have it by and by Mrs Davis.”

 

I pushed my way past and clattered down the remaining stairs, desperate to make my escape. The air so thick and stifling between us I felt I might choke if I tried to breathe in.

 

It could not have been clearer – without John I was in danger.  I was cast adrift in the ocean, and she, like a saw-toothed shark, circled as she scented my blood in the water.

 

~*~

 

“Is this wise lad?” Tom whispered.

 

“It is the not knowing, Tom. I could bear it a little better if I knew.”

 

Tom nodded curtly, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his shoulder brushing slightly against my own.

 

He had tried in vain to change my mind, spending much the journey to Hampstead imploring me to see that Watson could do us great harm if he chose, or could spare his only son and throw me to the wolves without my ever seeing John. But my stubbornness prevailed, and so here we stood, beyond the threshold of John’s ancestral home, waiting for our audience with its master.

 

It was the same narrow corridor, the same oak paneled door and the same, warm, book-lined room as my previous visit. Weston – as I would always think of him, sat toad-like as ever behind his writing table at the window. He took his time to acknowledge our presence, making careful entries in a large red ledger. I took it as a ploy to unsettle and to make us both aware of his elevated station. Neither cowed, nor intimidated, we waited for him to finish his task, until with a final flourish, he sprinkled powder over the ink to fix it and blew it off again with a puff of fetid breath.

 

The house itself was much too quiet. Which I allowed must be in deference to the invalid.

 

Weston sat back heavily, and only then deigned to look up, fixing me with a nasty sneer. “There is no business for you here,” he glanced at Tom, “you or your pimp.” Tom took a half-pace forward, deeply offended on my behalf, and began to protest, “Sir do not address him in that manner, I…” But I placed a warning hand upon his arm and he stilled again, the tension radiating out from him nonetheless. He must understand that to react with violence to such insults would be a grave mistake of which Tom have the worst of it should this interview turn sour. I did my best to appear contrite on his behalf.

 

“I only wish to inquire of John’s whereabouts, I was given to understand he is attending his grandmother.”

 

He held my eyes for too long a moment, and weighed his next words carefully. “Did you indeed? And how pray, were you privy to a private family message I ask you? You were with him when he received it– do you deny it?”

 

“I do not sir,” I answered, “We had merely been…”

 

He cut off my words with a growl. “Oh! I can well imagine what you had _merely_ been up to…. And why you seek him today. You were cavorting, no doubt, and now your payment has run out and you seek more from him.”

 

I felt heartsick at the tiny grain of truth in his words, and he saw it, there in my eyes before I had chance to conceal it.

 

“The truth then,” he crowed, “You wish to fleece him of more coin with your filthy whore’s tricks! I would see you in hell before you touch my son again, slut. You will not see him, fool that he is. I bid you both leave.” He was red about the face and neck by this time, and thick veins bulged out at his temples.

 

I should have expected such a visceral reaction. That he should allude to my former ‘profession’ was hardly a surprise, but that he would sit on his repugnant arse and deny _his_ part in this, not only in my own corruption, but that he himself was the engineer of his own son’s descent into imminent poverty? To leave without word of John was unthinkable now, and so I drew myself up to my fullest height and prepared to go into battle. “And I will leave sir, willingly, but first I wish to hear it from his own lips if I may.”

 

My calm voice belied an inner turmoil. I kept my back straight, and my gaze clear and steady, but I know not how I kept my legs as the floor pitched and swayed beneath my feet.

 

“You wish?” he went on, “I care not for your wishes.” Flecks of foamy spittle speckled the polished wood of the desk. “Know only this boy. My son has come to his senses at last, and has set his mind to knuckle down to the family business. He deeply regrets this…dalliance that occurred between the two of you, the like of which would bring shame upon the family if it were revealed, and so he begs me think of it as nothing more than exuberance of youth, a fleeting experimentation, an abominable mistake. I do not have to call him here to know he has no wish to see you, nor to speak to you, so I bid you again whore, to leave.”

 

“You lie!” I gasped, incensed. “John would not say….he would not... you must let me speak with him! Where is he?”

 

I cast around wildly, as if some clue to John’s whereabouts could be read from the oppressive air around me. I felt Tom grasp at the back of my jacket, and with a clenched fist, held me there, as if he sensed my next move would be to charge around the house tearing open every door I found. He knew me well, for I would have done, had it not been for the following words.

 

Weston looked at me slyly, and my blood ran cold in my veins. He looked gleeful to the point of madness, was poised to deliver his killing blow. “On a ship, bound for the America’s.”

 

I believe it pleased him to rip my heart out, and witness my complete devastation. My knees gave way. The breath caught in my chest. In panic I froze, unable to inhale some much needed air, pain lanced in my chest like a stab wound to the flesh. I thought I might swoon, was sure I must be bleeding, and indeed then I did swoon, just like a maid, but Tom was there to catch me as I fell, clutching under my arms as my ankles buckled beneath me. Weston could have ran me clean through and it would have hurt less.

 

“Then I will find him…or he will find a way back to me!"

 

Weston heaved his bulk out of the chair, and stalked around the desk to stand before me. It was too much like the first time I encountered him, I standing small and uncertain while he ogled and stripped me naked with his eyes. He had taken my innocence and now planned to complete my ruin.

 

“Oh! And I wonder what you'll say to his new lady wife then? How will you present yourself, hmm?”

 

He spoke without mercy. The noise I made was inhuman in nature. I stared at him in disbelief, could still feel John’s ring where it pressed against my skin. Wife? It was surely more lies! I could never believe John capable of such a deep and complete betrayal when only days before he had made a vow, pledged his life to me, his everything. But yet, a small voice deep within my mind sneered, was it not true that I had been the one to seek him out, hadn’t I heard nothing for two whole days?

“I – I don’t understand…. John isn’t….he wouldn’t!" I said, faltering,…"To whom?”

 

“Ha” So I see you have cause to doubt your young prince eh?  Kept you dangling while he cast his net in more bountiful waters did he! I thought as much boy, I can see it written all over your face.” His tone was mocking.

 

There could only be one.

 

I cast my mind back to the night of the masquerade. The way she had looked at him, a smile here, a touch there, a simpering word, drawing him away. Uninvited touches, mocking glances. Knowing all the while where my heart lay, if not his, testing the strength of our attachment, the strength of which only served to fuel her desire for the chase. It had all been a game to her. She must have been there, concealed behind the curtain and heard our exchange… heard John’s declaration of love. It seemed my protector that night, Mr V, had the right of it, my self-confessed rival had won.

 

I thought I would choke on her name when I gave voice to my deepest fear.  “It is Miss Morstan,” I said.

 

Weston smiled in satisfaction. “Then you know the young lady? Yes it is she. The very same.”

 

“And the message John received…from Lady Watson?”

 

“A fabrication borne of necessity… he is a prideful creature, and after our last exchange I knew of no other way to part the two of you. However, to satisfy your curiosity, Lady Watson is spending the summer with acquaintances of ours in Dorset. She is quite well, and am sure would send her regards.”

 

“Then she is not ill?” I spat, “And so you sought to deceive him in the only way sure to draw him back here. I put it to you sir that you deceived us both, you peddled lies and _forced_ John….you must have _press-ganged_ him! He would not have left me otherwise, and you knew that!”

 

Weston looked coolly back. “If you are so sure then show me the proof of it! The boy had not sailed before and perhaps, to calm his nerves and guard against the sickness he may have overindulged on his father’s finest brandy to ease the passage. Who do you think will be believed? He is my son and heir. A marriage will help to bury the foul rumours surrounding the pair of you. Our reputation was at stake - or would you risk my son’s exposure for your own perverted ends?”

 

He’d been leaning forward, all the better to spit his bile at me, but now he visibly relaxed again, took his palms from the desk and leaned back in his chair, his face now a picture of composure thinking himself the victor.

 

Tom laid a hand gently on my arm. “You must come away now Sherlock, there is nothing more to be done here.”

 

“Take heed of your pimp boy,” Weston snapped, “Now get out of my house or I’ll set the dogs on the pair of you!”

 

But I knew Tom was wrong, there was everything still to be done. John could not be gone. He could not! He curled an arm about my waist and I sagged against his side, letting myself be led from the room and out of that wretched house into the daylight.

 

“Then he was not himself Tom!” I said, in a babbling stream of consciousness, “I cannot believe he consented to this voyage…or…or to this travesty of a betrothal, he could not have had such a change of heart, it goes against his very essence.”

 

“That’s as may be, but if his father speaks the truth about a voyage, then I fear your John is lost now an ocean lies between you.”

 

I drew out the ring from underneath my shirt and turned it to catch in the sunlight.

 

John's words shone back at me.

 

_All my love always - JW_

 

If it took my last breath, I would find him.

 


End file.
